


Last Request

by leici



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's actually pretty sure he noticed that right off, the things Andrew and David have in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the unplanned sequel to [By Accident](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2244798). I watched this [YouTube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1OOMowqK-A), and the story started writing itself. It's primarily focused on the Andrew/Neal relationship (told from Neal's POV); the Dave/David relationship is only very secondary.
> 
> Enormous thanks to the wonderful, lovely frackin_sweet, who encouraged me immensely and beta-ed this massive thing. I couldn't have done this without you.
> 
> It's worth mentioning that there is a portion of this fic that deals with the death of David and Andrew Cook's brother, Adam, from brain cancer.
> 
> Written January 2010.

Neal doesn't see Dave for a while after the Idol Finale, because Dave has the concert tour he goes on with the rest of the Top Ten, and Neal's got other stuff going on, like playing shows with To Have Heroes and recording. They meet up off and on during the American Idols Live Tour to write and record, and Neal and Andy go to the Tulsa show and generally make fun of almost everyone who isn't Dave (though that Kristy Lee chick is kinda hot). To be honest, it's not  _too_  painful, at least not until the last song, which is a big, gay group number where Dave gets covered in silly string and flirts with the Australian guy and most of the singing is awful.  
  
Then, thank God, it's over, but the Idols stay out on stage, waving to the crowd, hugging each other. The house lights are down, but there are a million fangirls taking pictures, so it's like watching the proceedings under a strobe light, little flashes of what's going on. That's how Neal's pretty sure he's the only one who sees it, Dave hugging Archuleta. Which isn't a big deal, but right at the end, there on the stage, he kisses him, low on the neck below his ear. Andy doesn't even notice, and the screaming doesn't change pitch or anything, so the little girls must not see it either.  
  
Neal really wishes he hadn't. It stays in his head for weeks, because maybe he was hoping that, on tour, Dave would do something stupid, like sleep with someone or show how big a slob he can be, and Archuleta would be broken out of whatever spell Dave put on him. But it's obvious that didn't happen, last show of the tour and they're still touching like  _that_. In fact, it's probably worse now, because they've been together day in and day out for months, getting to talk and spend time together and touch. Maybe Dave even deflowered the kid, some night when they were lucky enough to have actual hotel rooms.  
  
Neal's definitely not going to ask about  _that_.  
  
And then Dave's tour starts in February (the day before Valentine's Day), and about a week and a half in, Neal catches Dave attempting to watch some concert video off YouTube on his iPhone. At first Neal thinks it might be footage of one of their shows, but he hears a snatch of sound before Dave can pause it, and it's definitely not their music.  
  
"What was that?" Neal asks, crowding Dave's space, trying to see the phone's screen.  
  
Dave hits the center button and the video vanishes before Neal can get a good look. "Nothing," Dave replies, pocketing his phone. "Just a YouTube video."  
  
"Yeah, but of what?"  
  
"Oh, it was just Archie's show from the other night. He did a new song I haven't heard yet."  
  
Neal tries very hard to keep from making a face. "Ah," he says, going for the diplomatic approach of keeping his mouth shut.  
  
That is until later that night, when they're at a crappy hotel in middle of BFE Ohio where there's nothing more interesting to do than get really shit-faced drunk. They close down the bar, head back to their hotel, and somehow Dave ends up tagging along with Neal back to his room, lounging around on the bed.  
  
They talk, but it's not about anything important. It's very pleasant and reminiscent, like the days when they toured around the Midwest in their own van and no one knew who the hell they were. There was no money, but there was also no pressure, no requirements, just them doing what they loved to do.  
  
But then Dave fucking ruins it by getting all sad and morose and Neal makes the very bad decision to ask him what's wrong.  
  
"Archie," Dave says, pressing his head back into one of Neal's pillows. "It's just weird to not have him around."  
  
Neal actually thinks he might vomit. "What is it with you and that kid anyway?" he asks, because Dave owes him an explanation, if he's going to be taking advantage of the fact that Neal knows about them to whine about missing the little snot.  
  
Dave tips his head, trying to look Neal in the eye. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
"Everybody loves him, wants to adopt him," Neal explains, rolling his eyes a little. "Except you, for some reason. You want to fuck him."  
  
"Hey," Dave responds, tone warning.  
  
"But you do, don't you? Probably counting the fucking days until you can put it in him legally."  
  
"Shut the fuck up." Dave sits up abruptly, moving like he's going to leave. But Neal catches his wrist.  
  
"Hey," Neal slurs, tugging. "Stay here. Just, fuck... Just  _stay_."  
  
Dave gives him a look, like he wants a reason, not to leave, not to punch Neal in the face.  
  
"I've known you for so long," Neal says, "So much longer." He pulls harder on Dave's arm, bringing him down close. He doesn't know why he's doing this, he knows Dave's not going to go for it, but he must be just drunk enough to not care.  
  
"Neal, knock it off," Dave responds, a flat palm against Neal's chest, pushing himself away.  
  
"I'll give you what you want," Neal counters, his hold on Dave's forearm strong enough that Dave can't withdraw very far. "Right now. You want to fuck someone, you can fuck me. You can do whatever you want to me. Anything."  
  
"Let me go, Neal." He pulls sharply at his arm, but Neal's grip is tight, secure, and they start to grapple a little, Dave trying to get away, Neal trying to keep him captive. Neal might be wasted, but he's a lot stronger than Dave, and he finally pins Dave to the mattress, both of Dave's hands pressed down at his sides.  
  
"What's  _wrong_  with you?" Dave pants, giving up his struggle momentarily.  
  
"I was going to ask you that question," Neal replies, shifting so he's sitting astride Dave's hips. "What's so fucking wrong with  _me_?"  
  
"For starters, you're psychotic," Dave answers, bluntly. "And I have no idea what the fuck this is all about, because you haven't fucking told me anything."  
  
"It's about you," Neal states, irritated that Dave doesn't seem to get this. "It's about you and... And that fucking  _kid_."  
  
Dave frowns, deeply, angrily. "That's none of your fucking business."  
  
"The fuck it's not." He leans in, eye to eye with Dave before he continues. "All this time, and you never fucking noticed."  
  
"What?" Dave asks, sharp edge to his voice. "What the fuck didn't I notice?"  
  
There's something about the fire in Dave's eyes, the meanness of his words, that makes Neal relent, and he unwraps his fingers from Dave's biceps, resting on his forearms. This brings his chest down, the bottom of his ribs pressed against Dave's, and Dave inhales deeply enough that the bones dig into each other. And then he's kissing Dave before he even thinks to do it, mouth pressing wetly against Dave's immobile lips, sucking, but gently, tongue brushing out, coaxing in futility.  
  
Except then Dave is kissing him back, parting his lips, and meeting Neal's tongue halfway, licking up into Neal's mouth. Neal sinks into it, deepening it, thrusting his tongue down, his body, and Dave is reacting, threading his fingers through Neal's hair, bending a knee so he can adjust his position underneath. It goes on and on, and Neal doesn't want it to stop  _ever_ , the sound of Dave's voice trapped in his chest, Dave's teeth catching against one of the silver rings pierced through his lip. He sucks there, softly, and for half a second Neal is enjoying the feeling of it, reveling until a harsh memory slashes through his brain and he pulls off, leaving Dave's chin arching up toward him as his lips try to follow.  
  
Neal exhales out, hot breath ghosting over Dave's face, and he's starting to feel guilt rise up like swelling in his chest.  
  
"I never thought it was me," Dave says, his voice low, a little breathless.  
  
Neal's expression twists, and he blinks to focus on Dave's eyes. "What'd you think it was?"  
  
"Alcohol," Dave answers, and it's almost ironic because that could easily be the explanation  _now_ , too. "Adrenaline," Dave adds, "My ability to fog a mirror."  
  
Neal wants to laugh, because it's funny, and because it's so fucking wrong. The sound gets stuck somewhere at the base of his throat. "That too," he finally mutters, because the silence is oppressive.  
  
"Why the hell didn't you ever say anything?"  
  
"Because I thought it was obvious?" Neal states, voice as clear as it's been since Dave invaded his hotel room. "Because I hoped it wasn't. I don't fucking know, man. Because you don't tell your best friend you want to get into his pants."  
  
"How's he supposed to know you want to, if you don't fucking say so?"  
  
Neal is stunned momentarily silent, his mouth dropping open as he tries to process the full meaning of what Dave's just said with a brain slogging through drunkenness. "So, wait... You're saying..."  
  
Dave shrugs, and it's a weird gesture, considering the look on his face. "How many times have I ever said no to you?"  
  
Okay,  _fuck_ , because that is definitely an admission Neal wasn't expecting, and now he doesn't have anyone but himself to blame. He kept his mouth shut too long and completely blew his chance. He closes his eyes, because the ache is starting to make them feel strangely prickly. He can feel Dave sigh beneath him, chest heaving up and then contracting, the air stirring around Neal's throat.  
  
"I'm sorry," Dave says, finally, and this time Neal does laugh.  
  
"What the fuck for?"  
  
"Not noticing?" Dave tries, his eyes searching Neal's like he's trying to see if it's the right response. "Not asking? I don't know. I feel like I let you down or something."  
  
Neal scowls. "You don't have to always be so damn considerate, Dave. I fucked this up pretty good on my own. I don't need you fucking apologizing."  
  
"Then what  _do_  you want me to do?"  
  
"Nothing. Be pissed off at me for what I'm doing, because I'm the asshole here."  
  
Dave sighs again, rolls his eyes. "You're always an asshole," he says, tone matter of fact. "I'm kind of used to it."  
  
"Fuck you," Neal replies, but this is starting to feel way more normal, like maybe Neal didn't just fuck up almost a decade of friendship.  
  
There's a long moment where neither of them say anything, and Neal shifts, finally, moving to Dave's side rather than continuing to rest on top of him. He feels a little cold when he does it, a little disconnected, but it needs to happen, if the expression on Dave's face is anything to go by.  
  
And it is, because the next thing Dave says, voice lower than before, is, "He asked me to sleep with him. Right before we left on tour."  
  
It hurts a little, but Dave is obviously needing to get this off his chest, so Neal concentrates on being Dave's best friend, trying to forget the rest. "I'm guessing you didn't."  
  
"No." Dave takes a couple of deep breaths, then turns his head so he can look Neal in the eye. "I know why he wanted to, though. It's the same reason I wouldn't do it."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"We've got tour dates for almost the rest of the year. He's got tour dates. When the hell am I going to see him?" The last part is a real question, one that Neal doesn't have an answer to, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets Dave continue. "Things are changing.  _Our lives_  are changing. I mean, how do I know who I'm going to be at the end of this? I'd like to say I'm not going to change, but that's more than a little naive."  
  
"So you're worried your feelings for him are going to change." It's a statement, not a question, because Neal's reading it directly out of Dave's eyes.  
  
"I don't want them to, but..." Dave presses his lips together, swallows before he continues. "I didn't want... I've never..." Dave doesn't usually fluster like this, and Neal starts to worry, just a little. "I've never been anyone's first," Dave finally adds, his voice sounding off in a way that Neal can't really understand. "And that's kind of a big deal. I don't want, I didn't want to just, to do it without seeing it for what it was."  
  
Neal's nodding, and it's a little weird that they've never had this conversation before. "It was a big deal for you, wasn't it?" he guesses, and the way Dave's pupils dilate tell him he's right. "Makes sense."  
  
"What does?"  
  
"It was a big deal for you, when you lost yours, so that's how you feel about it. About taking..." He stops, because he doesn't really want to think about it, what Dave will be taking, and from  _whom_. Dave's processing, Neal can tell by the way Dave's eyes shift a little off focus, so he continues. "It wasn't for me," he tells Dave, though he's not sure why. It's not even true.  
  
Dave's eyes refocus on Neal's, look questioning. "No?"  
  
"I was drunk," Neal elaborates. It's another lie, but it's completely believable, because he's  _always_  drunk. Dave's expression shifts into something almost sad, and the last thing he wants from Dave right now is pity. "I don't even really remember it," he says, trying to sound unaffected. He's spent a lot of his life trying to forget this - the moment, the relationship, the girl - and he's had enough sex since then that it doesn't really make a difference if his first time was good or bad or something in between.  
  
None of this seems to get that sympathetic look off Dave's face, so he changes tactics, turning it back around, despite the sick feeling it causes. "You do want him though, right?"  
  
"You know, that's the exceptionally stupid part," Dave responds, and he turns his head back up toward the ceiling. "I do and I don't. Some days, thinking about it makes me feel like a pervert, because fuck, you know, he's barely eighteen. And then other times..." Dave takes a slow, deep breath. "There are times when I want him so bad I feel like I'm going to give myself a coronary, trying to hold it back."  
  
Yeah, Neal has no idea what  _that_  feels like. But, seriously, what the hell does he say in response to this? "Maybe you shouldn't," he finally says, and he feels like he's hollowing himself out, but he goes on anyway. "Next time you feel like that, go with it and see what happens."  
  
"I can't do that."  
  
"Why the hell not? If he doesn't want it, he'll stop you. And if he does..." Neal stops there, because he doesn't really want to go on with that train of thought anyway. "Otherwise you're just going to drive yourself crazy."  
  
"I'm managing," Dave replies. "It's not like I can't take care of it myself."  
  
"Yeah, sure," Neal says, but his mind is saying something else, something about how Dave doesn't need to do it himself, about how willing Neal would be to help.  _Fuck._  
  
"You think I'm an idiot, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah, kinda," Neal agrees. "You've got girls out there night after night who would sell their left arm to lick your ass, but you're spending your evenings jacking off alone. Even you have to admit that's a little sad."  
  
"Maybe," Dave concedes. "But I don't really care."  
  
Neal frowns, deeply. "You miss him."  
  
"Yeah. I do."  
  
Neal exhales hard through his nose, almost like a snort, because this is  _stupid_. Even as intoxicated as he is, he can see that. "I know my intentions aren't... Well, I got motives. But I can get your mind off him. If you want me to."  
  
"Neal." Dave sounds worn out, chiding.  
  
"Yeah, I know, I know. I'll stop."


	2. Chapter 2

Andrew has Dave's mouth. Neal's actually pretty sure he noticed that right off, the things Andrew and David have in common. They have almost the same colored eyes as well, though Dave's are lighter, and so is Dave's hair, but they have the  _exact_  same lips, the same teeth, some creepily similar facial expressions.  
  
Right now, that doesn't really suck.  
  
Andrew is watching Neal roll the joint, and he looks like he's memorizing the method, appreciating the skill. Dave does that too, though it's usually when Neal's playing guitar.  
  
When Neal's done, and he's made sure it's not going to fall apart once they light it, he hands the roach and his lighter over to Andrew for the first hit. It's only fair; it's Andrew's weed. Andrew takes the proffered items with a nod, settling the joint between his lips - the ones that are  _just like Dave's_  - flicks the lighter and puts the pieces together. The glow from the flame flickers on Andrew's face, lights up his eyes, and if it weren't for Andrew's glasses, he would  _be_  Dave in that moment.  
  
Neal's always liked spending time with Andrew, despite the four year age difference. Most of the times Andrew drank underage were thanks to Neal, the two of them crashing in Andrew's room, drinking cheap beer and waxing philosophical about the music business, B horror movies, and women. It was usually stupid shit, and Andrew is way more pretentious when he's drunk, but Neal enjoyed the hell out of the fact that Dave's younger brother was also his roommate.  
  
And that hasn't changed. Dave likes to say he asked Andrew to move in with him post-Idol so he could take care of the house, watch the dog, but it's way less about that and way more about Dave's dependence on having people around him. Dave likes being validated, to have someone in close proximity so he doesn't have to make decisions on his own. It's not that he can't, or that he won't, he'd just prefer to have someone to share the responsibility.  
  
Obviously, with the show in Kansas City, they're just staying at Dave's place. They might as well get away from the bus, from the endless, benign hotel rooms. With Andrew there especially, this feels like home, even if it's not Neal's.  
  
The whole band had dinner around Dave's dining room table, probably only the second or third time it's been used. Dave and Andrew even cooked, steaks and potatoes and this ridiculous beer bread sent over by their mom. It wasn't even the best meal Neal had eaten in the last week, but it tasted better somehow, was more satisfying. It was strange, but hell if Neal was going to question it.  
  
Andrew's holding his breath, handing the blunt and the lighter back over to Neal wordlessly. Neal takes a hit, inhales long and deep, and he can already feel the warmth of it seeping into his lungs. He watches Andrew exhale, grey-white smoke spiraling up, stuttering as Andrew coughs, just a little.  
  
"Fuck," Andrew intones, the sound of it sultry. "That's not horrible."  
  
Neal nods, because yeah, it's not. "Not bad," he adds, voice tight as he waits until the last second to let his breath out.  
  
They pass the joint back and forth again, not speaking, just taking their time, letting the THC do its thing, reshape the mood.  
  
"It's been a while," Andrew says, relaxing back heavily against his headboard, holding the cigarette between the tips of his first finger and thumb. "Like, a  _while_." And then he laughs, soft and clear and, yeah, there's something else that reminds Neal of Dave.  
  
"Yeah," Neal agrees, starting to feel equal parts mellow and anxious. Normally, he doesn't get twitchy when he smokes pot, but there's something about this time, being here with Andrew, like old times. But different, because Andrew's 21 now, and it shows in his face, in his eyes.  
  
Andrew chuckles again, to himself, lighting up a third time, taking a big, long drag, the end of the joint flaring brilliantly before dulling, spitting up little trails of smoke as Andrew draws it away. His eyelashes flutter closed and he makes a low sound of pleasure, deep in his chest.  
  
Andrew's singing voice doesn't sound much at all like Dave's. It's cleaner, more pure, less rock'n'roll grungy. But his speaking voice, especially thick like this from the marijuana, it's more than a little reminiscent, evoking. Andrew exhales audibly, like a sigh, tinted with the beginning of a moan, and Neal feels heat start to build in his belly.  
  
Andrew hands the joint back, presses his opposite palm to his cheek, sliding a couple of his fingers up over his eye, beneath the lens of his glasses. Neal takes the blunt about the same second Andrew's glasses tip off his nose, bounce off his stomach and fall into the vee of his splayed thighs. Andrew's eyes open, but only halfway, and he takes a breath between parted lips. When he flicks his gaze up to Neal's face, raises his head just a little, it hits Neal like a truck. Through the haze, edges smoothed out by the pot, Andrew looks so much like Dave it makes Neal _ache_.  
  
"What?" Andrew asks, and he squints, as if he's trying to read Neal's expression.  
  
"Sometimes, man," Neal starts, and he's wondering why he's telling Andrew this, even as he says it. "Sometimes you look a lot like your brother."  
  
Andrew heaves a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes theatrically. "I  _know_. And it's really unfortunate, but what can you do?" He shrugs, still playing the comedian. "Genetics, man."  
  
Neal knows Andrew is kidding, because that's just how Andrew  _is_ , but he still really wants to say that it's not a bad thing, the fact that Dave and Andrew look so much alike. In fact, it's a good thing. You can't have too much of that.  
  
"You're definitely more fun," Neal finally says, lifting the joint in punctuation.  
  
"I don't know about  _that_ ," Andrew replies. "I mean, he's got that whole rockstar thing going for him. It's a little hard to beat that."  
  
Andrew's tone is still light, but Neal knows Andrew is still a little heartbroken over the Idol thing. It wasn't Dave's fault, which makes it almost worse, that Andrew's brother shows up and accidentally takes away his dream. Andrew loves Dave, has always had a fair amount of hero worship for him, is extremely happy and proud and supportive. But he's also human, and it's a little hard on him, watching Dave live the life he imagined for himself.  
  
"Man, it's only a matter of time," Neal says, insists. "You're a talented guy. Going places."  
  
"You sound like my mother," Andrew tells him. "And it doesn't really matter  _now_. Whatever I do, I'm David Cook's brother. Coattail rider."  
  
Neal frowns. This conversation is really starting to harsh on his high. "Why not use that? It's not like you're some hack. And you know Dave's gonna be there when you need him, whatever it is you do. We all will."  
  
Andrew gives him this look, lips pursed, way too serious. He doesn't like it, especially since it's his fault, so he decides he's going to fix it. He lights up again, inhaling as deeply as he lets go a of a bit of breath so he can say, "Come 'ere."  
  
Andrew does, pushes to his knees and crawls the short distance to where Neal is sitting on the end of the bed. Neal hooks his thumb and forefinger around Andrew's chin and tilts his head up, leaning in so he can press his mouth to Andrew's parted lips. And then he breathes out slowly, hotly, filling Andrew's lungs with the smoke he'd been keeping in his own. He only pulls away a few inches when he's done, doesn't completely release his grip on Andrew's jaw, stares into Andrew's eyes. Close like this, Neal's not sure he could tell the difference between Andrew's and Dave's, and he lets himself pretend, just for a second, that the expression on Andrew's face belongs to Dave instead, that he's the one looking like he wants something to happen, like the longing belongs to him.  
  
Andrew's breath comes out slowly, and it's like a thin smokescreen between them for a couple of long seconds. Maybe that's the reason Neal doesn't anticipate Andrew's forward movement, doesn't move to rectify Andrew's poor depth perception, and their mouths come back together painfully, Andrew's lower lip caught between their teeth. But, despite the little yelp Andrew makes, it doesn't seem to stop him, and Neal doesn't even have time to react before Andrew has his tongue in Neal's mouth.  
  
The kiss is messy, and awkward, Andrew still on his hands and knees and relying on Neal to maintain his balance. But Neal kisses him back, because it definitely doesn't feel  _bad_ , and he has all these little traces of Dave still fresh in his mind. He can't say Andrew kisses like Dave does, but there are, of course, similarities, including the way Andrew tastes, and no, not bad at all.  
  
Andrew pulls off abruptly, completely out of breath, and he sits back with a rough gasp, the mattress bouncing beneath them. He looks dizzy, dazed, breathing hard and blinking like he can't focus. As he tries to catch his breath, Neal notices a little bead of blood growing in the center of Andrew's bottom lip, skin split, and there's a weird collision of feelings that rise in Neal as the droplet expands, threatening to spill down Andrew's chin.  
  
"You're bleeding," he says, reaching out and swiping his fingertips over Andrew's lip and showing him.  
  
"Shit," Andrew reacts, his tongue sliding out to lick the blood away. Neal can see the stain on Andrew's tongue, just a flash of it, and there's something about it, something raw and wrong that translates into  _intoxicating_. He doesn't think before he laps the same stuff off the pads of his fingers, tasting it. Andrew makes a funny sound, has a weird expression on his face, and Neal has a feeling things are just getting started.  
  
"Neal," Andrew says, and Neal sees that Andrew's hand is hooked around the inside of his thigh, squeezing, almost like he's trying to defuse himself. His chest is heaving, blood blooming across his lip anew, eyes dark with intent, with desire. He's asking for permission, for direction. It's all up to Neal.  
  
It's not just because this as close as it gets, Neal tells himself. He likes Andrew, has always liked him, and there's nothing wrong with giving Andrew what he wants. So he nods, says yes, reaches to put the lighter and the joint on the bedside table before he takes another taste of Andrew's kiss.  
  
This one lasts a lot longer, re-situated into the middle of Andrew's bed so no one's in danger of falling off or losing their balance. This time, Neal has the opportunity to notice the way Andrew's beard feels against his face, gets to find out that Andrew likes to cup his jaw with both hands, anchoring his fingers around the the back of his neck, thumbtips digging into his cheekbones. Their bodies are twisted a little to accommodate them sitting sort of almost side by side, and Neal eventually just grabs Andrew and pulls him into his lap, because it's easier, because it feels awesome, because Andrew takes the opportunity to grind into him, to suck his lower lip into his mouth so he can tug on Neal's lip rings with his teeth. He spends so enough time doing it, flicking them with his tongue, that Neal guesses it might be something Andrew's wanted to do for a while. Neal doesn't mind, not at  _all_ , because having them messed with turns him on, having Andrew in his lap like this makes him feel better than he has in a long time.  
  
And then Andrew ups the ante, presses a hand down between them and starts to rub Neal's crotch with his palm until he can find the exact angle of his erection and squeeze it. Neal moans and Andrew breaks the kiss, eyes dark with lust. Neal remembers when this kid wasn't even legal to drink, was barely legal  _at all_. The difference is staggering, the transformation. Still, it makes Neal wonder what the hell he's doing, fucking around with Dave's little brother. He's about to say something, put the brakes on, when Andrew ends the silence.  
  
"I want to go down on you," he says, his voice a little rough, probably from the smoking. But the pitch, the sound of it, it's identical to Dave's this way, and the words themselves just make Neal's cock swell under Andrew's fingers. He doesn't want to tell Andrew no, even if he should. He knows it's selfish, it's not right, but somehow he doesn't care.  
  
"Yeah," he says, and he kisses Andrew's mouth wetly. "Yeah."  
  
He leans back to rest on his elbows when Andrew unbuckles his belt, watches Andrew's fingers pop his button and lower his zipper, lifts his ass off the bed when Andrew yanks his too tight jeans down far enough that he can get his cock out. Andrew's fingers wrap around the base, and he licks his lips before he leans down and swallows Neal halfway all at once. Neal fights to keep his hips from bucking, Andrew going after it without any trepidation, pulling back up so his tongue can swirl around the cap of Neal's dick, can lap at the tip.  
  
When Andrew ducks his head again, Neal feels the back of Andrew's throat, looks down to see Andrew's lips stretched around him, and  _fuck_ , it's obvious that Andrew's done this before. Neal's not sure if it makes him feel worse or better, but it's hard to concentrate when Andrew's swallowing around him, when he starts to bob his head slowly, taking millimeters more with each stroke. Andrew turns his eyes upward, looking at Neal through his lashes, and, oh God, he wishes he would stop comparing them, but they look so alike and he can't help but think that this is almost what Dave would look like, sucking his cock.  
  
He has to close his eyes, tip his head back a little. It's not fair to Andrew, the way he's thinking, even if he doesn't know it's happening. He forces himself to remember, tells himself, firmly, this is Andrew, not Dave. Andrew's mouth and Andrew's lips, Andrew's teeth scraping carefully, Andrew's spit collecting behind his balls. Andrew. He even makes himself say it out loud, voice shaking.  
  
It makes Andrew moan around him, causes Andrew to move faster, suck hard around the head of his dick when he pulls up. Neal lays back on the bed so he can get his arm free, so he can reach down and fist his hand in Andrew's frustratingly short hair. He wants Andrew to make him come, wants it to be about Andrew, only him. He can't help but arch into the heat of Andrew's mouth, can't stop the tension from building in his forearm, trying to hold Andrew down a little longer on each pass. He can hear Andrew's harsh breathing, the hurried inhalations he makes every chance he has, the little whining sounds that vibrate up the length of Neal's shaft, making him groan.  
  
Andrew's body shifts, and Neal isn't sure what's happening until he feels Andrew's blunt fingertips digging into his taint, rubbing, pressing down on the nerve there with intimate knowledge. Neal practically shouts, swearing brokenly, and Andrew shortens the strokes of his mouth, up and down. Neal barely has time to take a breath before he's shuddering in orgasm, shooting into Andrew's mouth as he cries out wordlessly.  
  
He's shaking, sweating, and makes a bit of an undignified sound when Andrew pulls off him. The bed shifts, Andrew about to get up, but Neal suddenly has to stop him, sitting and grabbing Andrew's upper arm. Andrew blinks at him, lips pressed closed, and Neal gets it. Andrew's not going to swallow, which doesn't really bother him, but he doesn't want Andrew to leave. He shakes his head softly, and Andrew's nostrils flare as he inhales, unable to ask what's going on.  
  
Neal looks down at Andrew's mouth, the angry split in his swollen lip, and he knows what he's going to do. He leans forward, swipes his tongue along the seam of Andrew's mouth, and Andrew whimpers as he lets Neal in. Neal's tongue twists, sliding deep into Andrew's mouth, drawing the thickness of his own come back past his lips. He swallows, goes in again, but this time Andrew's tongue tangles with his own, kissing him back forcibly, moaning deeply. Andrew's mouth is red when they break apart, lips bee-stung, body shaking.  
  
"You are so hot," he says in a heated rush, breathless. "Fuck, Neal." Neal notices then that Andrew's touching himself, digging the heel of his palm into his erection through his pants, legs shaking as he grinds against it. "Fuck, God, I wish you could fuck me."  
  
 _God damn_ , Neal wishes he could too. Because Andrew looks like he's about to come unhinged, and it's unbelievably sexy. But since he can't give Andrew what he wants, he's going to do the best he can to come close. He pushes Andrew down on the bed, his hand taking over rubbing at Andrew's groin as he finds Andrew's mouth in another hard kiss. He pulls open Andrew's pants blindly, shoving his hand down the front, feeling Andrew's dick through sweat-soaked cotton. He fiddles with him that way for a few minutes, squeezing and fondling through that layer of fabric, Andrew's hips shuddering as he tries to get more, feel more. He bites at Neal's lips, his fingertips digging into Neal's back through his shirt, and finally Neal relents, pulling away so he can tug Andrew's jeans and boxers off.  
  
He takes a look at Andrew laying there, naked except for his t-shirt, and even that is rucked halfway up his torso, his cock ruddy and hard against his lower abdomen. There is no mistaking this for anyone else, because Andrew's body is the one thing he doesn't share with his brother. He has muscles that stand out under his skin, narrower hips, darker hair crowding around the base of his dick. Neal can smell sex peeling off him, can see Andrew shaking with need, and he wants this, Neal wants Andrew.  
  
He spits into his palm, has to do it a couple times because cotton mouth is starting to set in like a bitch, and wraps his hand around Andrew's erection, squeezing.  
  
"Neal," Andrew gasps, drawing his knees up, pushing his thighs apart, and fuck if that's not an invitation. He wishes he was hard, could get hard again, because there's literally nothing else he wants more right now than to see Andrew's face when he's got Neal inside him.  
  
He strokes the swollen length of Andrew's cock, feels it against his palm, jerking his loose fist up and down at a steady pace. Andrew's already panting, pushing his head back against the mussed blankets, skin going flush. The only reason Neal's got any time at all with this is the drugs in Andrew's system, dumbing things down just enough to delay the inevitable. It's good, because Neal's known what he wants to do since Andrew made his admission.  
  
Neal sticks his left middle finger in his mouth, deep, tugging his ring off with his teeth. He spits it out onto the bed at Andrew's side, then sucks his finger back into his mouth, his first finger with it, getting them wet with saliva. He tries to maintain the rhythm of his other hand, still passing up and down Andrew's dick, and presses damp fingertips against Andrew's hole.  
  
Andrew wails softly, just at the touch, and Neal pushes without any further hesitation, sliding the full length of one finger into Andrew's clenching body. Andrew arches his back, tilts his pelvis, pushes down to take Neal deeper, moaning desperately.  
  
"Jesus, oh Jesus, Neal..." he mewls, hands fisting the sheets beneath him. "Oh Jesus, fuck me."  
  
Neal hasn't felt this out of control during sex in a long time, like he's going to snap and do something he'll regret later. He wants to give it to Andrew hard, wants to fuck Andrew's ass with his fingers until he screams. He won't let himself, he won't go that far, but he does add his other finger, shoving a little harder than maybe he should, feeling Andrew's tight asshole clamping down around the intrusion.  
  
Andrew cries out, though not loudly, and it sounds like a sob. Neal thinks maybe he should stop, maybe it's too much, but then Andrew's entire body bucks up, muscles locking down as he comes, thick ropes of semen lacing up his body, spattering his stomach, his clothed chest, even the underside of his chin. Neal has to wait, hold still until Andrew's body starts to relax, because his fingers are trapped, squeezed so tight inside that they are starting to tingle.  
  
When he can, Neal pulls his hand free, disconnects, sits back as Andrew lays gasping. He's still stoned, brain lagging as he stares at the aftermath, the reality sinking in too slowly. Andrew's breathing is starting to even out, and Neal wonders if he's just going to fall asleep there like that, no pants on, covered in his own jizz, if it would be an asshole thing for Neal to do, just leave him in that state. But then Andrew's eyes open, blink up at Neal, and, shit, now they're going to have to deal with this, with what they just did.  
  
"I think," Andrew starts, pushing his shoulders back against the bed, and Neal can feel his insides clenching in fear. "I think I'm laying on my glasses," he finishes, expression shifting toward a smile, and Neal laughs out loud, mostly in relief. He watches Andrew contort himself, reaching underneath with an awkward twist of his body to retrieve the object stabbing him in the back. It does turn out to be his glasses, and they are, shockingly, still in one piece. Andrew relaxes back to the bed with a sigh, holding his frames away from himself as he slings his arm across the mattress.  
  
"Are you going to sit there all night?" Andrew asks, and Neal realizes he's still perched on the foot of the bed, hands in his lap damp with spit and come.  
  
"No," Neal replies, standing and trying to adjust his pants as best as he can to be decent without having to touch them too much. "I'll probably see you tomorrow," he says, turning toward the door.  
  
"Hey," Andrew says, halting him. "You don't have to go," he adds, sitting up in his bed, his shirt falling down to cover his messy torso. "I mean, you can sleep in here. It's not like we haven't done that before."  
  
Neal clenches his jaw, frozen halfway between the bed and the door. He knows his brain's not working that great, but he's pretty sure Andrew wants to sleep with him. And he doesn't really know how that makes him feel. "Dude, you're a mess," he replies, taking the coward's way out. "I'm not sharing a bed with you like that."  
  
Andrew scowls at him, tugging his shirt off and using it to wipe his semen off his belly, out of the stubble under his chin. "There, that better?" he asks, tossing the shirt over the side of the bed. And, sure, maybe he's not covered in ejaculate anymore, but now he's  _naked_.  
  
Neal wants to just leave and not look back, not think about this until tomorrow, if ever. If he sleeps here, if he shares Andrew's bed, it will mean something more that just a random fuck. And maybe it should, because this isn't just some groupie or nameless girl he picked up at a bar. This is his best friend's little brother, this is  _Andrew_ , someone he considers a friend all on his own, someone he cares about, someone he trusts. He looks down at his hands, thinks about what they've just done, where they've been, and it almost scares him. He can't do this. He shouldn't have done this.  
  
Andrew's still sitting on the bed looking at him, expression expectant, hopeful. Neal takes a breath, swallows the anxiety back down as much as he can.  
  
"Just let me wash my hands."


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Neal wakes up disoriented, completely confused as to where he is, how he got there. He casts his eyes around the room, obviously someone's bedroom and not a hotel, tries to remember where they are, what city they played last night. And then it starts to come back to him, he sees a photo on the night stand, half smoked joint in front of it. He turns his head, confirming his suspicion that he's alone. Andrew's gone.  
  
He sits up, and his brain sloshes a little, and wow, okay, that was some really good pot. He finds his jeans on the floor, pulls them on. Apparently he slept in his t-shirt and boxers. Whatever, doesn't matter, the memory of everything before is distorted, like he dreamed it, like he went through it with his eyes closed.  
  
In the kitchen, Dave is sitting at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper and eating a bowl of cereal. It's a little strange, because he's not sure he's ever seen Dave read the paper before. He gets all his news on his iPhone.  
  
Neal clears his throat, and Dave looks up, looking content, refreshed.  
  
"Where'd you end up last night?" he asks, and Neal is reminded that he was supposed to be sharing a guest room with Andy.  
  
He's not sure if he's feeling bitter, or smug, but the first thing that pops into his head is  _I slept with your brother._ It's right there on the line, could be innocent or completely the opposite, and the best part is that it's  _true_ , for both definitions.  
  
Instead, he says, "I crashed in Andrew's room."  
  
Dave's eyebrows rise just a little, but he remembers the past as well as Neal does. When Neal doesn't offer anything further, Dave goes back to reading, and Neal moves to get himself a cup of coffee. He wants to ask Dave where Andrew went, but he figures that's probably not the best idea at the moment.  
  
Mug in hand, Neal decides a cigarette is in order. He shrugs on his jacket, going out the front door to sit on the porch steps. He sets his coffee at his side and puts the cigarette in his mouth, only to realize he left his lighter upstairs in Andrew's bedroom.  
  
"Fuck," he tells Dave's neighborhood, unlit cigarette still between his lips. He takes it out, holds it between his fingers, resorting to the caffeine instead. It's not even a passable substitution for nicotine, but it's as good as it gets for the moment.  
  
Two or three minutes later, the door pops open behind him, and he turns his head expecting to see Dave, or maybe even Andy, but it's Andrew, looking a little worn out.  
  
"Hey," Andrew says, and he holds something out to Neal, the sun glinting off plastic and metal. His lighter.  
  
"Thanks," Neal replies, taking it. Their fingers don't touch when he does, and for some reason, he actually notices.  
  
"You sleep okay?" Andrew asks, tucking his hands into his back pockets and leaning against the porch railing, opposite where Neal is sitting.  
  
"Like the dead," Neal says, and it was really a lot like that, heavy and dreamless. Andrew nods, and he looks almost kind of ill, unsettled. "You okay?" Neal asks, moving finally to light his cigarette, keeping his eye on Andrew as he does.  
  
"Yeah," Andrew answers, licking his lips, and Neal can see the darkness of the scabbed over cut now, a quick flash of sense memory causing a shiver to bolt up his spine. "Just a headache," Andrew adds, and Neal has a pretty good feeling that Andrew is lying.  
  
Neal's not sure what he's supposed to do here. It's like Andrew is waiting for something, but Neal doesn't know what that  _is_. So he smokes slowly, staring out across Dave's lawn, waiting Andrew out.  
  
"Look," Andrew says, finally, his voice a little distant. "What happened, last night... I'm not normally like that."  
  
Neal looks over, and he can't meet Andrew's gaze because Andrew is looking off down the street, back mostly turned. "I know that," he responds. They've gotten messed up together dozens on of occasions, and this is the first time it's ever gone this way.  
  
Neal thinks he can see Andrew's shoulders lift in a sigh. "I don't want this to fuck things up," Andrew admits.  
  
"It won't," Neal snaps, because he wants Andrew to stop thinking that way immediately. He sees the way it makes Andrew jump, and he takes a breath, tries again. "Andrew. It won't."  
  
Andrew turns around, and he doesn't look any less tired, but he does seem to have relaxed a little. His eyes move over Neal's face, as if he's trying to reconcile something there. Whatever it is, he gives up a few seconds later. "Good." The tone is final, Andrew turning to go into the house, and Neal has the sudden urge to stop him, to keep Andrew there with him for a few more minutes. Because once they've finished breakfast and packed up, they're back on the bus on the way to Omaha for a concert later that night.  
  
He doesn't get up, doesn't say anything, just lets Andrew leave. Maybe if they'd done this a night earlier, if it had been the night of the show instead of the one after, they'd have time to deal with it. They had an entire off day yesterday, didn't do anything but lay around Dave's living room and drink beer, watch crap off Dave's TiVo. If the timeline had shifted, just a little, one night could have been two. It's a strange thought, because Neal has been thinking of it as a one night stand, in a way, but considering doing it again, even idly... That's not something he wants to analyze, not right now.  
  
So he finishes his cigarette, downs the rest of his barely warm coffee, and goes to get his stuff in order. He's got his bag packed, is standing in the foyer with Kyle and Andy, waiting for Dave to hurry the hell up when he realizes he's forgetting something.  
  
He mumbles an excuse, drops his duffle by the door and heads up the stairs, man on a mission. He doesn't hesitate or take his time, just turns the corner, finds the right door and opens it, not even bothering to knock.  
  
Andrew's head whips around, staring at Neal from where he's sitting at his desk, and Neal isn't thinking when he crosses the room, tugs Andrew out of his chair and kisses him. It's really not the most pleasant kiss ever, because Andrew's a little slack jawed at the beginning, and Neal's holding him really tight by both of his biceps, keeping Andrew from relaxing into it at all. So he tries again, lets go of Andrew's arms and grabs the back of Andrew's head with one palm, pulling Andrew back to him with a more reasonable amount of force. Andrew kisses back this time, though it's like he has no idea what to do with his hands, and they just kind of hover in the vicinity of Neal's hips.  
  
It goes on a lot longer than Neal plans, though truthfully, it's really all happening on the fly. It's starting to draw out long enough, in fact, that Neal might have an interesting first few minutes on the bus, trying to keep certain things to himself. But then Dave yells up the stairs, telling Neal to get his ass in gear, and Neal forces himself to pull away.  
  
Andrew looks dazed, cheeks heated, and that fucking cut on his lip is seeping a little, bleeding freshly. "What was that for?" he asks, his voice a low purr of pleasant surprise.  
  
"Wanted to say goodbye," Neal replies, rubbing the back of Andrew's neck before pulling his hand away, swallowing against the rapid beat of his own pulse.  
  
"Damn," Andrew says in amused awe. "Please feel free to say goodbye to me whenever you want."  
  
"Hey, Neal, sometime today!" Dave yells, voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, and Neal rolls his eyes.  
  
"Gotta go," he tells Andrew, and he backs away before he can do anything to delay him further.  
  
"Yeah," Andrew says, and his eyes, well, something tells Neal that Andrew would like it better if he could stay.  
  
"See you around," Neal tosses out, trying to be noncommittal, retreating to Andrew's doorway.  
  
"See ya," Andrew replies, waving once, and Neal can't understand the way he feels right now, like he's tethered to something, a knot in the center of his chest pulling. The sensation gets worse with each step, and it's almost like heartburn when he hits the landing. Dave probably made the coffee too strong, and he hasn't eaten in a while; he's sure it has something to do with that.  
  
Back on the bus, sitting on the couch with a magazine, he glances at the back of his hand and he remembers, again, what sent him upstairs in the first place. He's not sure how he managed to forget, because it's the whole reason he was in Andrew's room to begin with. His ring, the one he took off last night, is still there, in Dave's house, in Andrew's bedroom, probably still lost in Andrew's bed-sheets. Maybe Andrew will find it, or maybe it will end up in the bottom of Beth's washing machine whenever Andrew bothers to do his laundry. Neal figures he probably won't see it again, though it doesn't really matter. It doesn't mean anything, isn't important, doesn't hold any sentimental value. Just something he left behind. It wouldn't be the first time.


	4. Chapter 4

Neal sleeps like shit the night after the Omaha show, partially because they stay on the bus so they can get to Tulsa as quickly as possible, and partially because he gets to listen to Dave on the phone with Archuleta for about half an hour. The conversation isn't even particularly nauseating, but Dave has a tone to his voice when he's talking to his _boyfriend_ , and it's sickening in and of itself. Neal still can't figure out how this fucked up relationship is still going on, a year later, when they haven't seen each other since February. If it was Neal, he'd have slipped up and cheated at least once by now, especially with all the tail that's chasing them around these days.  
  
Of course, the last time he got laid - before Andrew, assuming he counts that - was a couple of months ago, when Andy's sister was still having post-breakup sex with him.  
  
Maybe Dave's lost his mind completely. Because it's not like he's getting any when he  _does_  see Archie, and, if Neal's calculations are correct, it means that Dave hasn't gotten it on with anyone in approximately  _forever_.  
  
Anyway, the whole thing isn't making Neal think about Andrew. Not at all. Well, okay, at least not beyond the fact that he can still remember what that orgasm felt like, and remembering it feels  _nice_ , but it hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet. It's just that he gets tangled up in things in his brain, and the bus ride is especially turbulent, and when they get to their hotel in Oklahoma he is more than a little exhausted.  
  
Not to mention how weird it is to be staying in a fucking hotel in a town where he used to live before all this craziness started happening. Of course Neal's room in that house was way the hell smaller than the one he's splitting with Andy here, and he can easily afford to drink all the booze out of the minibar these days. Things change, for better or worse, and Neal's not afraid of that.  
  
They get a few more hours of sleep before they have to get up for soundcheck, and Neal makes his way through on autopilot. He didn't really get much rest in the hotel either, focusing on Andy's steady breathing, the beat of his own heart, unable to clear his mind, settle his conscience.  
  
But the show goes off fine, and they get another full night in the hotel before heading back to Missouri.  
  
The first two nights are in a town called Rolla, which has a big tech school and that's about it. That college is even where they're playing their gig. They do stay in Oklahoma as long as they can before leaving, because Tulsa's full of nostalgia, and Rolla's got fuck all to do when they're not playing music.  
  
They've already played a lot of colleges, and this one is pretty much the same as all the rest: screaming coeds with stupid signs, at least three of four of them asking Dave to marry them, lots of screaming over  _Kiss On the Neck_ , lather, rinse, repeat. The show only gets interesting when they leave the stage for the encore. By the time Neal hands off his guitar and gets backstage, Dave is hugging the shit out of someone, and when they separate, Neal almost inhales his own spit, because it's  _Andrew_.  
  
And then Andrew spots him, and his face does this thing where his eyes light up and looks like he wants to smile really hard, but is trying to hold it back. Neal's a little caught by it, by the layers of things involved in that look, and he feels his heartbeat starting to climb into his throat.  
  
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dave's asking Andrew, eyes wild and happy. "Don't you have class or something?"  
  
"Drove down after," Andrew says, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I'm just going to skip tomorrow. No big thing."  
  
"You're not driving back to KC tonight, are you?" Dave continues, wrapping an arm around Andrew's shoulders as he walks back towards the stage.  
  
"No, I got a room in your hotel. I'll just follow the bus to Warrensburg tomorrow. Mom's coming down in the afternoon with Grenvell."  
  
"Oh, okay," Dave says, assimilating the information before patting his brother on the shoulder and drawing away, taking his guitar from his tech. "What do you want to hear?"  
  
"Bar-Ba-Sol," Andrew suggests, trailing Dave as he heads toward the stage.  
  
"You got it," Dave agrees, looking around to make sure the rest of the band heard him.  
  
So they play Andrew's song, though it's not unusual for them to play that one in the encore anyway. Andrew, Neal's sure, knows that, which is why he chose it. Or it might have been something more specific, because Neal notices Andrew watching  _him_  for pretty much the entire song, dark eyes locked on, his expression getting more and more... Well, lustful seems to be about the only word for it, like Andrew's ready to come out on the stage and rip his clothes off. It makes Neal nervous.  
  
It makes Neal  _hard_.  
  
So he gives Andrew a little bit of a show, letting himself get really into the solo, shunning Dave by turning away from him just enough to keep him anchored to center stage. He doesn't meet Andrew's eyes, but he knows Andrew's staring. He can feel it, Andrew's heated gaze, and he revels in it, drinks it in, lets the things he wants to do later fill up his head. He knows full well why Andrew is here, unplanned, and the lack of expectation doesn't turn Neal off at all.  
  
When the song ends, he spares a glance in Andrew's direction, finds him appropriately flustered.  _Perfect_ , Neal thinks, and he can practically taste the sexual energy building between them. It's going to be a fun night.  
  
They go out for drinks, and Dave sequesters Andrew for most of it, leaving Neal to toss back shots and ignore the conversation that Andy and Kyle are having about their girlfriends. He keeps his eye on Andrew as much as he can, over Andy's right shoulder, and it looks to him like Andrew's been drinking the same beer for well over an hour. That's not gonna cut it, not when Neal is halfway to shit-faced, so he gets up abruptly and orders three tequila shots, offering one each to the Cook brothers, and keeping one for himself.  
  
"What's this?" Dave asks, and Neal smirks.  
  
"Motivation."  
  
"What for?" Andrew wants to know, smelling the shot but looking more than willing to drink it.  
  
"Doing something stupid," Neal replies, smile feral. "You're already skipping class, might as well do it up right."  
  
Dave shrugs, and apparently misses the look Andrew gives Neal over the top of his glasses. "To doing something stupid," Andrew says, lifting his shot, Dave and Neal following suit before all three throw them back.  
  
"Woo, good stuff," Dave says, licking his lips. "I'm shocked, Neal."  
  
"Well, I've got all this money now, you see, so I can afford to waste it on you occasionally."  
  
"Isn't that charitable?" Dave jokes, and Andrew smiles, but it's one hundred percent directed at Neal.  
  
Neal buys three more shots for Andrew, cutting into his and Dave's conversation long enough to deliver them and then retreat back to his own seat. Dave either doesn't seem to notice that Neal's not buying any more for  _him_ , or he's too drunk to care. Neal himself hasn't heard a single word Andy or Kyle have said in the last half an hour, just sits there angled enough in his chair that he can watch Andrew without looking like he's staring, noticing every time he laughs or swallows or licks his lips.  
  
He can see Andrew stumble a little when he climbs down off his stool and heads to the restroom, laughing as Dave catches his arm to steady him. Neal's left leg is bouncing on its own, and he doesn't try to disguise what he's doing as he watches Andrew disappear down the hall. He's ready to get out of here, has been ready, needs to get Andrew alone before he explodes. He waits as long as he can stand it, finishing off the half a glass of beer sitting in front of him and then pushing himself standing, crossing the room toward the bathrooms.  
  
He doesn't go in, just lingers outside the men's room door, waiting. He's only there about thirty seconds before Andrew comes out, and he grabs Andrew by the upper arm, taking him around the corner to where the pay phones are tucked, pushing Andrew up against the wall.  
  
"Neal," Andrew finally says in a rush of anxious breath.  
  
Neal growls lightly, leaning in to press his body against Andrew's, mouth damp against Andrew's ear. "I think it's time to leave," he huffs, rolling his hips against Andrew's, grinding him back into the brick.  
  
"Okay," Andrew gasps, though he shifts so he can get his mouth on Neal's, pressing into a sloppy, frantic kiss that leaves them both panting.  
  
It's cool outside, which is a blessing because it clears Neal's head enough that he can remember what direction they have to walk to get back to the hotel. Andrew is following behind him, trying to type a text message to his brother so Dave knows Andrew's left the bar and won't worry about him. His phone ends up on the floor the second they get into Andrew's room, because Neal shoves him up against the nearest wall and picks up where they left off at the lounge, sucking a bruise into the side of Andrew's neck as he rubs at Andrew's groin with his upper thigh.  
  
They're both pretty drunk, and things sort of rush by in a blur of heated skin and breathy words, wet kisses and hard, deep thrusts. It's very apparent that Andrew was hoping for this, because he's prepared, has the things they need, the presence of mind to tell Neal where to find them, makes every step so simple that Neal doesn't have to think, only has to  _do_.  
  
Neal wakes up the next morning to the sound of his cell phone ringing, but literally no idea where it is. He drags himself out of bed, listening, finding his jeans halfway across the room and digging his phone out of the pocket.  
  
"What?" he answers abruptly, kneeling on the rough hotel carpet.  
  
"Where the hell are you?" It's Dave, which probably shouldn't surprise him, but he's momentarily irritated that Dave doesn't know.  
  
"Andrew's room," he says, and he can hear Andrew asking who he's on the phone with.  
  
"Ah," Dave replies, and it's in that tone that means they're probably going to have words about this later. "Well, we're taking the bus to go get something to eat in about twenty minutes, so you might want to get ready to leave."  
  
"Yeah, okay," Neal says, just hanging up after Dave says goodbye.  
  
"Was that David?" Andrew asks, sitting up in bed when Neal gets up off the floor. His hair is sticking up all over his head, and there's gunk in it that Neal doesn't want to think too hard about, even though he's pretty sure he's a mess himself.  
  
"Yeah," he replies, tossing his phone on the bedside table. "I've got twenty minutes to get ready or they'll leave my ass here."  
  
"I'd drive you," Andrew offers, his head tipped down to examine the dried substance that's crusted on his belly.  
  
"We need a fucking shower," Neal suggests, and Andrew raises his eyes. Neal's not sure if he meant for them to shower  _together_  when he said it, but the look on Andrew's face says that's what he's thinking.  
  
"Okay," he says, crawling across Neal's side of the bed and heading toward the bathroom.  
  
Neal takes a minute to survey the damage in the room, trying to piece things back together from hazy, fragmented memories. There are at least two condom wrappers that Neal can see from where he's standing, the tube of KY half under the bed, Andrew's glasses in the middle of the floor and articles of clothing tossed carelessly around the room. There's also a single dark button, and Neal suddenly remembers accidentally tearing that off Andrew's shirt, trying to get it open. The thought catalyzes other memories, Andrew's fingernails and Andrew's teeth, Andrew's heels digging in high on his back, Andrew's hands braced on the headboard. He feels his pulse flutter in his throat, recalls Andrew waking him up at around four in the morning for round two, fucking Andrew so hard he can still feel the ache of it in his quads, in his hamstrings, all the way down the back of his legs from ass to knee.  
  
"Oh my God," Andrew says from the bathroom, breaking Neal out of his reverie. "Did you bite me last night?"  
  
Neal comes into the room to see Andrew staring in the mirror, leaning in way too close, examining a red-ish brown mark on the side of his neck. "Probably," Neal grins, remembering a couple of other places that might have similar bruises that Andrew hasn't noticed yet.  
  
"Crap," Andrew tells Neal's reflection, squinting at the hickey again. "You know I have to see my  _mother_  tonight, right?" Oh yeah. Neal had actually forgotten about that. Not that it would have made a difference. "How bad is it?" Andrew asks, turning around so Neal can look. "I can't fucking tell without my glasses on."  
  
Neal reaches up and fingers the spot, pressing down and watching it go white for a second before the blood flows back in. "It's not  _horrible_ ," Neal tells him. "It could easily be a bruise."  
  
"Yeah, like I've never used that excuse before," Andrew says. "You're sure it's not bad?"  
  
"I'm sure," Neal assures him, taking a moment to look at Andrew's eyes, clear and blue-green without the thickness of plastic in the way. "You ever think about getting contacts?" Neal asks, because Dave wears them, disposables that he only changes once a month.  
  
"I have some," Andrew replies. "I just don't wear them that often because they're such a bitch. I'm totally blind, and I have astigmatism, so the contacts have to be weighted. They're expensive and really hard on my eyes."  
  
"That's too bad," Neal says, reaching up to sweep his thumb along Andrew's right cheekbone. "You have really nice eyes."  
  
Andrew breathes out a little embarrassed laugh. "You can still see my eyes when I'm wearing glasses," he remarks.  
  
"I know," Neal replies, leaning in and brushing a kiss over Andrew's mouth. "I just like the view better with nothing in the way."  
  
"You're getting all mushy on me, Tiemann," Andrew states, but it doesn't stop him from pushing in for his own kiss. "It's starting to freak me out."  
  
Neal smirks, pulling back and turning Andrew toward the shower. "Go clean yourself up, you slob," he says, swatting Andrew on the ass.  
  
"That's better," Andrew responds, pulling back the shower curtain. "You coming?" he asks over his shoulder as he leans down to start the water.  
  
"Believe me, if we had time..." Neal replies, and Andrew's laugh echoes off the tiled walls. The sound of it suffuses Neal with a light feeling that he hasn't experienced in a long time, one he can't even identify. Whatever it is, it keeps him from thinking too much about what it means to be sharing a shower with someone.


	5. Chapter 5

Breakfast isn't as awkward as Neal thinks it might be, despite the fact that Andrew joins them at the Denny's up the highway. He wears the same collared shirt from the night before, which is a smart move because it casts enough of a shadow on Andrew's neck that you'd have to really be looking to see the little souvenir Neal left there. Dave either doesn't notice the missing button, or he just doesn't say anything about it.  
  
On the bus, Neal makes sure to stay in the main compartment so he can't possibly end up somewhere alone with Dave, and after they get to Warrensburg, Beth shows up early with her husband and the family all goes out to lunch together. So far, Neal's off the hook.  
  
Dave comes back from lunch in a pretty good mood, sound check goes off and the show that night is gearing up to be a good one. Right before they play  _Lie_ , Dave spots a sign in the crowd that he decides to read aloud. This isn't the first time he's done this, so Neal doesn't think much of the whole thing, going about tuning his guitar with his chromatic tuner and blocking out most of what Dave is saying.  
  
That is until Dave says Andrew's name. He's not really sure what's going on, but he does recall something about Hersey's Kisses, and when Andrew climbs up on stage, it looks like Dave is setting his brother up to kiss some random girl in the first row. Neal feels a little knot of anger growing at the base of his chest but he tries to ignore it, definitely doesn't watch Andrew lean down to do what he's told and kiss the girl, thankfully, on the hand.  
  
But Dave doesn't stop there. No, he makes some stupid comment about how there's  _more where that came from_ and Andrew's playing along and fuck it, because Andrew and Neal are just screwing around, so there's absolutely no reason any of this should be pissing Neal off. He does give the guitar part of  _Lie_  a little more heat than it generally calls for, but the rest of the band doesn't really seem to notice.  
  
Dave's family is backstage when they finish up, even his step-dad, and it's not the first time Neal's gotten a hug from Dave's mom, but this one feels a little more awkward. They spend a some time talking, and Neal tries to keep to himself, chime in occasionally and not stare at Andrew's neck, or Andrew's eyes, because Andrew is wearing those contacts he says he hates so much. Equal parts of Neal hope it is and isn't for him.  
  
Despite loitering inside the venue longer than usual - it is Andrew and Dave's alma matter, so it's not like it's a problem - there are still fans lingering by the bus when they head out to the parking lot. Neal has a feeling it's going to be pretty impossible to get Andrew alone long enough to say goodbye the way he wants to, but Dave causes a bit of a commotion by introducing his mom to the crowd and Neal feels someone catch his hand and pull him around the side of the building while everyone is distracted.  
  
"Walk me to my car," Andrew says, not asking, tugging Neal to the far side of the lot where his car is parked. It's far enough away that no one is going to see them, definitely not where someone with VIP status would normally leave their car. Andrew planned this, like he'd planned the night before. Neal is really starting to have feelings for Andrew's knack for forethought.  
  
Neal also really appreciates how Andrew generally takes the direct approach, unlocking his car with the remote and opening the back door without hesitating. "Wanna make out?" Andrew asks, seductive little grin on his face.  
  
"I don't know," Neal replies, crossing his arms. "I hear you give it out to anyone who asks nicely."  
  
Andrew affects a dramatic pout. "That's not true. I gave it to you without being asked at all."  
  
"Good point," Neal says, licking his lips. "You better kiss me somewhere better than the hand though, Casanova. I'm not that easy."  
  
Andrew gives Neal a look that would probably make him hard if he wasn't already on the way. "If we weren't limited by space and time, I'd kiss you in places you can't even see without a mirror."  
  
Neal feels the blood drain out of his face as he puts the pieces together on  _that_. "When am I gonna see you again?" Neal asks, reaching down to adjust himself.  
  
"I don't know," Andrew says, dark eyes watching Neal's movement. "Probably not for a while, though. School and all that." Andrew swallows, lifting his gaze to Neal's face.  
  
"Fucking sucks," Neal replies, reaching out to finger the hole from the missing button on Andrew's shirt.  
  
"Yeah," Andrew agrees, his hand lifting to Neal's, stilling it. "Not to be pushy or anything, but we probably have about ten minutes before someone is going to miss us..."  
  
Neal's mouth twists in a predatory smile. "You want to get some before that happens, I'm guessing."  
  
"I wouldn't mind," Andrew smiles back, and Neal grabs Andrew's hand, ducking into Andrew's back seat and pulling him along. Andrew reaches to shut the door, and as soon as it's closed, they lunge for each other, coming together in a rough kiss, Neal's head hitting the window behind him as Andrew falls into him. It makes Neal momentarily dizzy, and when he can focus again, he feels Andrew unbuckling his belt, struggling with his button and zippper.  
  
"Here," Neal pants, arching his back and getting his jeans open himself, working the denim out of the way so he can pull his erection out.  
  
"God," Andrew moans, wrapping his fingers around it immediately. "I fucking love your cock."  
  
"I think it likes you too," Neal says, breathless, pushing his shoulders back against the inside of the car door, trying to give Andrew more room to work.  
  
"I'd hope so," Andrew replies, stroking fluidly but at a pace that means business. "Considering how nice I am to it."  
  
"You are pretty nice," Neal says, throat tight with rising pleasure. "Pretty good at it."  
  
"Lots of practice," Andrew says, and for a minute Neal's not sure what he means by it, and it makes him feel a little strange. "I'm sure I'll get more in the next few weeks," Andrew adds, and suddenly it dawns on Neal that Andrew means practicing on  _himself_ , and Neal feels the euphoria of relief.  
  
It also makes him feel like he ought to give Andrew something to remember him by. "Drew, get your pants open," he implores, and watches as Andrew tries to get his jeans open one-handed. He mostly manages, but has to let go of Neal long enough to get the zipper all the way down, maneuver to get his dick out the front of his boxers. They have to adjust their position a little so they can both reach each other without smashing or maiming themselves, and they end up with one of Neal's legs along the seat, the other propped on the floor with Andrew's legs over the top. There's not a lot of talking anymore, just the sounds of their labored breathing. Neal twists his free hand in the front of Andrew's shirt, his left in Andrew's lap. It works out where Andrew has to switch to his left hand as well, which is less coordinated, but that doesn't really matter. The look on Andrew's face and the sound of Andrew's ragged breathing are more than enough to make up the difference.  
  
"Oh Jesus, your fingers," Andrew keens softly, blinking against the urge to close his eyes. "The calluses," he clarifies, his own stroke hitching a little. "I love how that feels."  
  
Neal breathes out hotly, shifting his hand so he can drag his fingertips up the length of Andrew's cock, drawing his index finger over the slit at the head. "Like that?" Neal asks, and Andrew nods, moaning. So Neal does it again, switching between gripping and grazing the skin with the ends of his fingers. Andrew's hand is faltering on him, but it doesn't make a difference, because Neal is getting off on the way Andrew is reacting. He thinks back to that girl, the fan in the crowd, the one that got Andrew's kiss earlier. Maybe it's mean, but wishes he could tell that girl to suck it, that maybe she got a kiss on the knuckles, but he's got Andrew's dick in his hands, he's making Andrew moan, he's going to make Andrew  _come_.  
  
And then, as if on cue, Andrew makes a broken sound, and Neal shifts his hand so Andrew orgasms into his waiting palm.  
  
"Oh my God, Neal," Andrew breathes out, body trembling as he tries to force his own hand back into motion, fist riding up and down with a rhythm that somehow Andrew knows way too well already. He can smell Andrew's semen, feel it warm and wet in his hand, thinks about Andrew's earlier threat, where that sinful kiss could be, and he lets go with a groan, jacking himself up into Andrew's loose grip.  
  
When he takes the time to look, he notices Andrew's windows are completely fogged up, Andrew's arm and sleeve spattered with come. Andrew's looking around, probably for kleenex or something to clean himself up, and Neal makes the sudden decision to just lick Andrew's release off his own hand.  
  
Andrew catches the movement and looks up, eyes going a little wide. "Did you just do what I think you did?"  
  
"Does that gross you out?" Neal asks, wiping the residual saliva off his palm on the leg of his jeans.  
  
"I don't know yet," Andrew says, apparently still unsure what to do about the spooge all over his arm.  
  
"You need to start carrying towels around or something," Neal suggests, reaching back to pull a bandana out of his back pocket. He doesn't offer it to Andrew, rather wipes Andrew's arm for him, tossing it to the floorboard. "You keep that," he says. "I have a feeling taking it on the bus would be a bad idea."  
  
Andrew laughs, still a little breathless, and scoots back so he can tuck himself back into his jeans. Neal follows suit, and a couple of minutes later they're on their way back to the bus, the fans now dwindling to just a handful who are trying to have a conversation with Dave and Andy. Neal hopes the walk and the slight breeze are enough to keep him and Andrew from smelling like a brothel, and watches closely as Andrew goes to stand by his mom. She doesn't seem to notice anything amiss, and a few minutes later Dave is hugging Andrew and his parents goodbye. Neal doesn't chance any further contact, but gives Andrew a look, hoping that's a good enough way to end the evening.  
  
On the bus, Neal goes straight back to his bunk and lays down. He still hasn't talked to Dave one-on-one and he'd rather not do it tonight, not with the last moments with Andrew still fresh in his mind. He closes his eyes and drifts, destined to fall asleep without changing his clothes when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out to find a text message from Andrew.  
  
 _My car smells like your cum._  
  
He feels a thrill run through him when he reads it, the memories coming back even stronger now than before. He's about to text something back, when he gets a second message.  
  
 _And I decided it's not gross. What you did. In fact it's totally hot._  
  
Neal smiles to himself, sending back simply,  _Hope you're not texting and driving. Save the multitasking for later._ Neal waits until he gets a reply ( _Yes sir!_ , it says) and then relaxes back, phone resting against his chest. He never planned for this to happen, whatever this is with Andrew, but he thinks he likes it.


	6. Chapter 6

The next couple of days continue along the same lines. Neal spends most of his time avoiding being alone with Dave and exchanging text messages with Andrew. They play one show in Arkansas, then head to Florida. Early in the morning of April 30, when the bus is somewhere in the middle of Butt Fuck, Mississippi, Neal gets a text from Andrew that wakes him out of a dead sleep. He thinks about ignoring it, reading it when he gets up later, but something makes him look at it immediately.  
  
 _On the way to Indiana with mom. Have David call me when he's up._  
  
Neal has to read the message twice, because he first time he has to stop in the middle. He knows Dave and Andrew well enough to know why Indiana is significant, can see the words that Andrew is avoiding.  
  
 _I will. If you need anything, call me._  
  
He doesn't know what else to say, what he  _can_  say. He's pretty sure Andrew wants Neal to wait until Dave gets up on his own, but Neal has a feeling Dave would rather know sooner than later. He climbs out his bunk and crosses to Dave's, pulling back the curtain and shaking Dave's shoulder gently.  
  
"Fuck off," Dave mumbles, still mostly asleep.  
  
"David," Neal says, hoping is tone is serious enough to wake Dave up.  
  
Turns out it is. "What's wrong," Dave asks, blinking sleep out of his eyes.  
  
"Call your brother," Neal replies, and dark realization hits Dave's face.  
  
"Adam?"  
  
"I think so," Neal answers. "Andrew texted me and wanted you to call when you got up."  
  
"Thank you," Dave says, moving to get out of his bunk and find his phone, going up front to make the call. Neal wants to give Dave his privacy, but can't lay back down either, so he sits on he floor near the back of the bus, holding his cell, staring at the blank screen. After twenty minutes or so, Dave shows up at the end of the hall, and Neal gets up to meet him. They sit down side by side on the sofa in the middle of the bus, Neal waiting until Dave's ready to talk about it.  
  
"Adam's not doing very well," Dave begins, voice even.  
  
Neal nods. This isn't the first time this tour Dave's gotten this news. "You going?"  
  
Dave frowns, staring at his bare feet. "No," he says, though he doesn't sound decisive, or comfortable with the answer. "Last time I saw him, Adam made me promise him I wouldn't cancel any more dates." Dave takes a deep breath, exhaling a long sigh. "I said goodbye to him, Neal."  
  
Neal doesn't know how to react, what Dave needs to hear. "Can you go anyway?"  
  
Dave shakes his head, and his nose twitches, telltale. He's trying not to cry. "I think this is it, this time," Dave adds. "Andrew, he said Dad's already there, called them in the middle of the night."  
  
Neal reaches over, presses a flat palm between his shoulder blades, rubs comfortingly. "I'm sorry," Neal's voice rasps, rough with sorrow. He's only met Adam two or three times, doesn't know him, but Dave's pain is his pain, Andrew's now part of him too.  
  
Dave nods, can't speak, and Neal just sits there in the silence with him, hand on his back, offering as much strength as he can.  
  
The days after that are solemn. The news about Adam spreads through the band and crew without a word from Dave, and people attempt to tiptoe around him without making it obvious. Dave is so much like himself at the shows that it's almost disturbing, and Neal plays along, acting like everything's okay. He takes his phone with him on smoke breaks and that's when he talks to Andrew, who's having a much harder time dealing, sitting around with his family essentially waiting for his brother to die.  
  
Andrew doesn't cry when he talks to Neal on the phone, which Neal finds almost as fucked up as Dave's forced normalcy. They talk about things that are utterly unimportant - sports, music, television - but there's a tightness in Andrew's voice, a loneliness, and Neal wishes he could force Dave to break his promise and go, if for no other reason than to be there for Andrew.  
  
They play a show in West Palm Beach Florida on May second. Dave is especially stoic, and when the gig is over, he gets in a car and heads to the airport. Except he's not going home, he's flying to Washington DC for The Race for Hope, a 5K charity race for cancer research. Neal wishes Dave would go to Terre Haute instead, blow off the race for the sake of his family. He won't, refuses, says over and over that Adam doesn't want him to put the tour, his life, anything on hold.  
  
So Dave's on a plane and Neal's in a hotel in south Florida when it happens.  
  
Neal's phone rings at 3:17 AM Eastern Standard Time, and he startles awake, heart pounding with adrenaline. He doesn't have to look at the screen to know who will be on the line. "Andrew," he says, voice muddied by sleep.  
  
"Yeah," Andrew murmurs, answering Neal's unspoken question. "A couple hours ago."  
  
"Shit," Neal sighs, rubbing the center of his forehead with his fingertips. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"Yeah," Andrew says again, his voice wavering.  
  
"Does David know?"  
  
Neal hears Andrew inhale shakily. "Yeah," he says the third time, and Neal can hear Andrew's resolve breaking down. "He's not coming home," Andrew says, voice pained. "He's leaving me here, Neal. And I can't..." He stops, takes a breath. "I can't do this. I need him here. I need my brother."  
  
Neal wants to wring Dave's neck in that moment, or just grab him and shake him. He knows why Dave's doing what he is, but Neal can't listen to the sound of Andrew's voice like this, broken and scared, and not want to do something. "If I could make him be there, you know I would." Neal says, adamant.  
  
"I know," Andrew sighs, so weary. "I hate this. I hate being here. I hate having to try and be strong, because... for Kendra and... and the kids..." Andrew swallows hard enough that Neal can hear it. "I'm not. It's all bullshit. I feel like, like who cares anymore? What the fuck does it matter? Everyone just dies anyway."  
  
"You know that's not true," Neal replies. "And you don't have to be strong around me."  
  
"Yeah right," Andrew huffs. "Blubbering idiots are such a turn on."  
  
"Hey," Neal cuts in. "I don't give a damn if you cry over a fucking hangnail. And this, you're supposed to cry. He was your brother, man." Andrew doesn't respond, but Neal can still hear his shaky breathing. "Okay, listen, when Dave comes home, I'm coming with him. And when I get there, I'll do whatever you need me to, alright?"  
  
Andrew sniffles. "You don't have to do that."  
  
"Yeah, I know I don't," Neal replies. "But I'm gonna do it anyway."  
  
There's a long silence, and Neal closes his eyes, just listens to the sound of Andrew exhaling against the receiver. "Neal?" Andrew finally says, breaking the near silence.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
There's another pause, like Andrew's trying to get the nerve to say whatever is weighing on his mind. "Thank you," he murmurs, and while it sounds sincere, Neal has a strange feeling that those weren't the words wanted to say.  
  
"Yeah," Neal replies. "Of course."


	7. Chapter 7

Dave gets back from Washington looking like he got hit by a truck, but still acting like everything is business as usual. He has a meeting with the band and tells them that we're canceling the show in Perrysburg, Ohio, and that Dave's flying to Indiana right after the show in Kentucky, meeting back up with everyone in Akron two days later. There's a bunch more discussion about the tour, the tickets and passports and stuff for the gig in the Philippines in a couple weeks, but nothing about Adam's service, nothing about how Dave's holding up.  
  
Neal knows Dave wants it this way, to grieve silently on his own, but Neal has to talk to Dave before plane tickets are purchased. He chases Dave down right after the meeting breaks up, catching him in the middle of trying to make a phone call.  
  
"Can this wait?" Dave asks, looking at Neal wearily.  
  
"Actually, no," Neal replies, and he doesn't know why this conversation is making him feel so nervous. "I want to go to Indiana with you."  
  
Dave shakes his head slightly. "Neal..."  
  
"I know you want to keep this to yourself, I get that," Neal says, keeping his voice low. "But I want to be there. For you. For your family." He hopes Dave doesn't press the issue, gets it enough that he doesn't question it.  
  
Dave stares at him, reading his expression, contemplating. And then he inhales deeply, closing his eyes and sighing. "Yeah, okay. It'll be nice to not have to fly alone."  
  
So Neal and Dave catch a private jet as soon as they finish the show in Louisville. Neal drinks probably too much on the plane, but he needs to steel himself for this, needs to beat down the anxiety so he can be useful and supportive. Dave spends most of the flight telling Neal stories about growing up with Adam, what it was like to have a brother that was eleven years older than him, how protective Adam had always been of Dave and Andrew when they were little. Like Andrew, Dave doesn't cry, just laughs and smiles and detaches himself from the reality that Adam's gone. It's in those moments that Neal realizes he couldn't do what Dave is doing, couldn't go on day after day like this, if he were in Dave's place. He's not that strong.  
  
Andrew's waiting for them at the airport, standing by the tall glass doors in the baggage claim looking pale and exhausted. Dave spots him immediately and they hug each other so tightly that Neal feels suddenly, bitterly jealous of the love they have for each other.  
  
Neal meets Andrew's eyes when he and Dave separate, and Neal doesn't know what to do, so he stands there dumbly.  
  
"How's Mom?" Dave asks and Andrew shrugs.  
  
"About how you'd expect," he replies, turning to head out to the parking lot. He and Dave walk side by side, talking about which of their family members are there, where they're staying, how things are going with Adam's wife and children. Neal follows a few paces behind them, trying not to eavesdrop but catching snatches of the conversation without meaning to.  
  
The car Andrew's driving is a huge SUV with Indiana plates, and Dave's eyes widen a bit when he sees it.  
  
"They let you drive the Escape?"  
  
"We didn't know if Andy and Kyle were coming or not," Andrew replies, voice buzzing with irritation. "I wanted to bring Mom's car, but Kendra made me take this."  
  
"I can drive it back," Dave suggests, and Andrew glares at him.  
  
"I got it," he snaps, unlocking the car and yanking the driver's door open.  
  
"Jesus, okay," Dave responds, going to the passenger's side. Neal gets in behind Andrew, smartly continuing to keep his mouth shut.  
  
Neither of the Cook brothers speak for a long time, and Neal can practically feel Andrew fuming. He knows this has a lot less to do with the argument they just had over the car and more to do with Andrew feeling abandoned by Dave when he needed him. He's pretty sure Dave knows that, too.  
  
After about ten minutes, Dave starts asking questions again, voice pitched low. Andrew's responses are the shortest they can possibly be, one or two words, hard and angry.  
  
"What's your problem?" Dave finally asks, voice raised.  
  
"Stop asking me fucking questions!" Andrew shouts back. "If you wanted to know what the fuck was going on, you could have fucking come here yourself. I'm not your fucking bitch."  
  
"Andrew..." Dave tries, tone angry but even. Andrew doesn't let him finish.  
  
"I said fucking STOP!"  
  
It's terrifying to watch, because Neal's never seen Andrew this upset before. His grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, his body visibly shaking, and Neal can see in the rearview mirror that there are tears leaking down his cheeks.  
  
"Andrew, pull over," Dave says, and it's not a suggestion. For a few tense seconds it doesn't look like Andrew's going to listen, but then Andrew turns into a gas station, parking the car crookedly in one of the spaces, jamming the gear shift into park.  
  
Dave reaches over and pops the latch on Andrew's seat belt, unbuckling his own, and Andrew practically flings himself into Dave's arms, leaning awkwardly across the center console. "I'm sorry," Dave murmurs, and he pets the back of Andrew's hair while Andrew sobs into his shoulder. "I'm sorry."  
  
Neal feels like a voyeur, like an intruder. He thinks about getting out of the car, walking away, smoking a cigarette, _something_ , because this isn't his grief, and he's not part of this love. It's suffocating.  
  
But it doesn't last long, and Dave's pressing a thumb into his eye as Andrew pulls away, trying to stop himself from crying. Andrew sits back with a long, pitiful exhale, taking his glasses off so he can wipe his face with his sleeve. "I'll drive the rest of the way," Dave tells him, and Andrew looks way too drained to argue. "Go sit in the back with Neal," Dave adds, and Neal doesn't know why, but it feels good that Dave wants his brother there, in Neal's space.  
  
Andrew and Dave get out of the car, Dave going around to the driver's seat, Andrew sliding into the back. There are three seats where Neal is sitting, and Andrew sits in the one right next to him, rather than the one closer to the door. He tries to put his seat belt on, hands shaking, and when he misses the second time, Neal reaches over and does it for him. Aside from that, there's no contact between them, Andrew's gaze lost somewhere between his knees until they arrive at the house.  
  
Neal starts to really wonder what he's doing here when he follows Andrew and Dave up the walk, each step making him feel more nauseated. He's never been a fan of family gatherings, even when they involve his own family, and he knows he doesn't really belong here. He thinks about staying outside, lingering on the porch until Dave drives them over to the hotel where they're staying, but then Andrew reaches down and grabs the sleeve of his shirt, right at his wrist, holding on as Adam's wife opens the door.  
  
She and Dave immediately hug each other, and Andrew's fingers tighten on the cuff of Neal's sleeve. When she pulls away from Dave, Kendra's eyes fall on Neal. They've never been introduced, but they know each other by proxy. She nods at him in recognition, and he returns the gesture, hoping his expression can convey his sympathy.  
  
Inside the house, Dave continues to get hugs from his family members, his mother, grandmother, his dad, then his little niece and nephew. Neal feels awkward, still, guilty somehow, because while he's sad that Adam passed away, he's not heartbroken like everyone else in this room. Beside him, Andrew sniffs, and Neal catches him wiping at his eyes with his opposite hand, and he remembers why he's here. He leans in close to Andrew's ear, keeping his voice low as he says, "I need a smoke. Come with me?"  
  
Andrew nods, and he lets go of Neal so he can cross the room to his mom, whisper to her. She nods, then casts her gaze at Neal, nodding to him as well. And then Andrew leads Neal out into the back yard, to the far side where there's a little garden edged in wood timbers about two feet high. Andrew sits and Neal takes the hint, joining him once he's got a lit cigarette in his mouth.  
  
They sit in silence for a long couple of minutes, Neal smoking and Andrew staring at the swing set in the center of the lawn, the swings swaying just a little with a light breeze. Neal's in a weird position, because his instinct is to touch Andrew, put his hand on Andrew's knee or his shoulder, something. But being here, sharing that sort of touch, it's almost too intimate, even considering what they've already done together. Neal's still contemplating what he should do, besides just sit there, when Andrew turns to him, reaches across with his right hand and grabs the collar of Neal's shirt. He leans in without thinking as soon as he sees Andrew move toward him, lets Andrew kiss his mouth. Andrew's lips are dry, only parted just a little, and Andrew doesn't seem to want anything deeper than this, shallow and soft, but lingering. Neal holds the hand with the cigarette away, slides the other around the back of Andrew's neck, embracing him.  
  
It probably doesn't last more than about ten or fifteen seconds, but when they draw apart, they're not alone anymore, Dave standing in the grass, one hand wrapped around the support bar of the swing set. Looking at them.  
  
"I wanted to head over to the hotel," is all he says before he turns and walks back toward the house.


	8. Chapter 8

Dave doesn't really say anything to Neal directly on the way to the hotel, or once they get there. He addresses Neal and Andrew as part of  _we_ , and they each have their own room, so once they check in, Neal goes to his alone.  
  
It's still early-ish, and Dave and Andrew have to be at church for the visitation for six hours, so the plan is for them to take a nap. Neal's restless, and he wants to be with Andrew, but he forces himself to stay in his room. He showers, for lack of anything better to do, spends a few minutes texting Andy, and then finally gives up and turns on the TV. There's nothing on, and he gets bored of clicking channels and ends up half watching some stupid talk show with crazy teenagers who want to get pregnant so they can be emancipated from their parents. It's fucking ridiculous, and it must be boring, because he wakes up around 1:30 when someone knocks on his door.  
  
It's Andrew, wearing a charcoal suit and a black tie, his face raw looking from a recent shave.  
  
"Dammit, you were sleeping," Andrew says, and Neal shakes his head.  
  
"Just outta boredom, I'm not tired," he replies, running a hand through his hair.  
  
Andrew nods. "David and I are leaving for the church now. I think my mom and Nanny are going to make dinner after, if you want us to come by and get you."  
  
Neal cringes internally. There's no way he can sit through a huge family dinner like that, not in this situation, probably not ever, considering his connection to them. "I think I'll stay here," Neal responds. "Unless you want me there."  
  
"No, it's fine," Andrew says, and it sounds like he means it. "I understand why you wouldn't want to come."  
  
Neal smiles a little, grateful. "You're coming back here after that, right?"  
  
"Yeah, we are. Probably not much before ten, though."  
  
"Well, if you want to, you can come to my room for a bit. I'll be up." Again, he's itching to touch Andrew, maybe even just hug him, which is not something he's done since they started doing more interesting things together. He doesn't, and Andrew looks uncomfortable on the threshold of his room. "You don't have to," Neal adds.  
  
"No, I think I will," Andrew replies, looking Neal in the eye. "I mean, depending on how I feel, I guess."  
  
Neal has the urge to tell Andrew he's not going to force him to have sex or anything, because maybe that's what Andrew's so worried about. What they have, whatever this is, it's completely based on that, on fucking. Neal being here like this, that's starting to mean something else. "Nothing has to happen," Neal says, and Andrew smiles, though it's wan.  
  
"I know," he replies, the expression vanishing when he sighs. "Gotta go," he says, and that's when Neal hears a door down the hall shutting, and Dave appears behind Andrew a couple of seconds later.  
  
"My brother invite you to dinner?" Dave asks, and Neal refuses to try and interpret the look on Dave's face when he says it.  
  
"Yes," Andrew answers for him. "He's going to pass, just like I said he would."  
  
Dave rolls his eyes. "Andrew was born without the hospitality gene," he tells Neal over Andrew's shoulder, earning him an elbow in the gut from his little brother. It's a almost weirdly normal, the banter, except that it feels so wrong, in light of the situation. Dave moves to place a hand on Andrew's back, drawing him away a little. "Time to go, Drew," he says, and Andrew gives Neal a look, like he wishes he could just stay there instead.  
  
"I'll see you later," Neal tells him, and he realizes, he wants the same thing. Dave maneuvers Andrew out in front of him, hand on his lower back, and he leaves Neal with one last glance, one that's full of knowing, and a little bit of disapproval. Neal's pretty sure he knows what it implies, that he's not going to be able to avoid owning up to Dave about this anymore.  
  
It gives him a lot to think about, once he's alone on his bed again. He spends a few unpleasant moments trying to put some kind of label on what's going on, but he can't. He doesn't even know what he means to Andrew, what Andrew means to him. All he really knows is that he wants more of it, sex, messing around, texting and talking on the phone. He's gotten used to talking to Andrew in some way everyday, and he wants  _that_ , whatever the fuck that involves.  
  
Hours roll by. Neal watches a lot of TV that he doesn't really see, just stares and lets his mind go blank. Sometimes he'll look at the clock and wonder how Andrew's doing, if he's just standing or sitting in the church, accepting people's condolences over and over. Neal's been to funerals, but never a viewing. He had a great uncle that died and had an open casket, but Neal was a kid back then, and he was equal parts terrified and morbidly curious. That, and he wasn't close with his uncle, never really knew him, wasn't emotionally invested. He can't imagine what it would be like if it was someone he truly cared about.  
  
Around eight thirty, when he's finally hungry enough to venture out for food, he wanders down the road a bit and finds a diner. He sits at the counter and tries to ignore the stares of the handful of other patrons, the waitress pouring the coffee. Terre Haute isn't a small town, but most of the people living there look like yuppies, business people, and Neal's facial piercings and visible tattoos seem to be fairly alien to the residents. He doesn't get any trouble, though, orders a burger and fries and wishes the place served beer, settling for a Dr. Pepper. The food's not terrible, not great, and he eats it faster than probably he should, but he doesn't have anything else to do besides stuff his face.  
  
On the walk back to the hotel he thinks maybe he should have taken Andrew up on his offer, because maybe he'd have felt awkward, but eating at the diner hadn't been completely without that feeling anyway, and he probably wouldn't have ended up with indigestion. Not to mention he'd be getting to see Andrew, be there for him, which is the entire reason he's even in Indiana.  
  
Ten o'clock comes and goes, and while Neal doesn't worry, he gets anxious. He's been alone for hours now with only the droning of the television to keep him company, and even though loneliness isn't something he usually has an issue with, he's starting to get stir-crazy. He goes outside to smoke a cigarette, takes his time with it, holds the smoke in his lungs as long as he can, thankful for the way the nicotine and oxygen deprivation start to take the edge off.  
  
When he gets back to his door, Andrew is there, turns around when he hears Neal's boots scuff on the carpet. "I thought you might be asleep," he says, and Neal swallows down an automatic comeback about being out giving himself cancer.  
  
"I was smoking," Neal says instead, reaching past Andrew to unlock his door, holding it open to let Andrew inside. Andrew's still in his suit, meaning he hasn't gone back to his own room yet, just came straight to Neal's. "How was dinner?"  
  
Andrew shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the back of a chair. "It was okay. Sad," he replies, going for his tie. For some reason, Neal stops him, taking over loosening the knot, pulling the silk free of Andrew's collar.  
  
"How are you holding up?" Neal asks, beginning on Andrew's buttons, lifting each arm to undo the ones at the cuffs before going to his throat, making his way down the center of Andrew's chest.  
  
Andrew takes a deep breath, action lifting the fabric beneath Neal's moving fingers as he fills his lungs. "I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to cry again," he says, and Neal takes a long second to look into Andrew's eyes, see how bloodshot they are, how raw the flesh around them looks.  
  
"I'm sorry," Neal says, holding Andrew's gaze for a couple of seconds before lowering his eyes so he can pull Andrew's shirt free of his waistband. He's about to push the garment off Andrew's shoulders when something catches his attention. He saw the necklace before, when he was popping buttons, but now he's noticing what it is, not a pendant, a ring hanging from the chain. More precisely  _Neal's_  ring, the one Neal left in Andrew's bed, the night this whole thing started.  
  
"What's this?" Neal asks, reaching down to grab it, lifting it away from Andrew's skin.  
  
Andrew tips his head down, like he'd forgotten what he was wearing around his neck. And then he colors, adjusting so he's not looking at it, not looking at Neal either. "I forgot about that," he says, abashed. "You left it in my room," he continues, when Neal doesn't say anything in response. "I found it the next day, after you were gone. Under the bed. I brought it to Rolla, was going to give it back, but I guess I forgot..." He swallows, his eyes shifting, but not focusing. "When Dad called I just... I don't know, I wanted it with me. It's stupid, I know." He reaches up, hands going behind his neck for the clasp. "You can have it back."  
  
"You keep it," Neal says, dropping it against Andrew's sternum, pressing his palm flat over the top. And then he has Andrew's eyes on his, Andrew's hand coming up to cover the back of his own, holding Neal's against him. Neal can feel Andrew's heartbeat filling the hollow of his palm, the cadence changing, pace picking up just a little, and he leans in, pressing a careful kiss to the flat of Andrew's cheek. It's a test, a gauge of Andrew's reaction, and it feels awkward and stupid, but Andrew sighs, and his fingers sort of curl around the edge of Neal's hand, and when Neal moves the kiss to Andrew's lips, he's sure that it belongs there.  
  
This is different than any kiss they've ever shared before, because it's hot, yeah, but it's also something else. Like Andrew is absorbing strength from Neal via his mouth, like he's letting go some of the sorrow suffusing him. Within a couple of minutes, Andrew is pushing Neal back into his bed, climbing on top, and this is new too, because Neal's always been in control before. Neal can't say he doesn't like it, feeling Andrew's weight bearing him into the mattress, the way Andrew fits his body between Neal's legs like he owns the space. Neal's ring, on the chain around Andrew's neck, rests against his chest as Andrew sucks on Neal's throat, dips his head to lick at Neal's collarbone. Neal's fingers brush up the back of Andrew's head, feathering the short hairs there, catching a grip, hanging on.  
  
There's a thought in his head, that he wants Andrew to do what he's telegraphing, he wants Andrew to fuck him. He can't make himself say it, because of why they're here, where Andrew's mind could be, his heart. But he gives the hint, shoves Andrew's shirt down his lean, pale arms, getting his hands on that skin, blunt fingertips digging into Andrew's bunching shoulders. His reward is Andrew's mouth against his own, the kisses driven, pointed, Andrew's cock hard and persistent against Neal's groin. He wasn't going to force this, wasn't even going to hope for it, but Andrew's hands are pushing up under his shirt, his fingernails catching over each jutting rib, down to the waist of his jeans, grabbing hold of the denim and yanking, even before he can get the fly open.  
  
This isn't going to get anywhere, Neal can tell, not beyond desperation. They're sober, for once, but Andrew's still not in his right mind. It's harder than usual, but Andrew's hands are shaking enough that Neal can feel the tremors, the fumbling. He opens his own jeans, then Andrew's slacks, and when Andrew shifts to get them off, Neal follows suit, sits up to strip his t-shirt too, so when Andrew comes down on him they're both naked. Andrew's mouth finds Neal's again, and Neal's hands touch everything they can reach as Andrew rocks against him, presses their cocks together, quickly slicked with sweat and precome. Neal hasn't done this in a long time, dry-humped someone, because there's no reason to do it when you can just have sex instead.  
  
And, fuck it, there's no reason for them to not have sex  _now_ , either. It's fairly obvious Andrew wants it, but maybe he's worried Neal  _won't_ , that Neal doesn't do it that way, doesn't take it as well as give it. He does, would be more than happy to have Andrew inside him, tries to communicate that the best he can with Andrew's tongue down his throat. He grips Andrew's hips and shoves him down, just a little. It's enough that Neal can tip his pelvis so Andrew's dick slips along the side of Neal's balls, down against the cleft of Neal's ass. Andrew tries to adjust, but Neal holds him, fingertips digging into his narrow hipbones, bending his knees more deeply so he can open himself up to it.  
  
"No," Andrew breathes hotly, barely backing out of the kiss, mouth wet against Neal's as he speaks.  
  
Neal's fingers curl even tighter, his body moving underneath, serpentine. "Why?" he growls, ready to resort to just about anything to get what he wants.  
  
Andrew's eyes open wider, try to focus on Neal's despite their proximity. He has to draw back a couple of inches, and Neal watches a little bead of sweat fall from Andrew's eyelashes, spatter the inside of his glasses lens. "I don't have a condom," Andrew says, and his voice is thick, with desire, but with embarrassment woven in as well.  
  
"God dammit," Neal swears, because he doesn't have one either, and it's not like they can just go find one somewhere. "Fuck, okay," he adds, because he doesn't want Andrew to think he's pissed off at  _him_. He moves a hand to pluck Andrew's glasses off his face, reaching to set them on the bedside table. "Next time," he says, re-situating his hand on Andrew's hip, "because fuck, Drew.  _Fuck_."  
  
And Andrew gets it, swallows hard, indulges Neal as much as he can by thrusting carefully, slipping his cock along the furrow between Neal's buttocks. Neal's hands continue to rest at Andrew's waist, but with lessened tension, holding, guiding. Andrew drops his forehead to the pillow, cheek pressed against Neal's, panting softly as he moves, slow and unsteady, even his breath shaking. There's something almost tender about the moment, the realization swelling in Neal's chest, and it makes all the awkward moments and long hours alone worth it, just getting to be here  _right now_ , being what Andrew needs.  
  
Then Andrew shifts, pushing his knees down on the mattress to adjust his body position so his dick is pressed up against Neal's again, and Neal makes the executive decision that if Andrew's going to have an orgasm, it's going to be in his hands. He drags his left palm around the front of Andrew's waist, pushing between their bodies and cupping his fingers over both of their shafts, pressing down, reveling in the broken sound of Andrew's moan. He adjusts his hand, looping his thumb around the girth of Andrew's cock alone, curling his fingers into a loose fist. And Andrew puts space between them so Neal can move, gives Neal what he wants this time, or maybe just takes what he needs. It doesn't matter, because either way, they both win.  
  
It doesn't take much to finish Andrew off, a few quick passes of Neal's hand over him and he's spilling on Neal's belly with a rough sob. And Neal's made a liar out of him, because a couple of stray tears drip onto Neal's chest, from the tip of Andrew's nose.  
  
His eyes, though, that's not sorrow, it's something else, something that makes Neal pull Andrew down against him with his clean hand, press deep, wet kisses to Andrew's mouth as Andrew's come glues their torsos together. This is undeniably desperate, and Neal doesn't realize at first that the wanton, throaty sounds he hears are  _his_ , that his arms are trapping Andrew hard against him as he bucks up, grinding himself against Andrew's pelvis until he adds his spunk to the mess between them. Andrew pulls off Neal's mouth gasping, lost for breath, eyelashes damp and clumped together, and Neal feels something break loose inside him, like he's losing his balance and falling, catching Andrew's biceps by instinct.  
  
There's a long, suspended moment where they just stare into each other, like something is building between them, the kind of silent pathway that Neal has with Dave and Andy, with people he...  
  
Andrew blinks, severs the connection, and Neal feels something like relief flood into his chest. Andrew gets up then, goes into the bathroom for a few minutes, and Neal has to practically command his heartbeat to settle down. He sits up when he hears the tap shut off, pushes out of bed when Andrew climbs back in, takes his turn with the last clean washcloth on the bathroom rack. Andrew's eyes are closed when he returns, and they don't say anything, even after Neal snaps off the light.  
  
Neal doesn't think they need to; everything they could have said was probably hidden somewhere in that look that passed between them.  
  
But even more than that, Neal doesn't think they  _should_. Words make things real. Hearing things like that only proves to ruin them, to ruin everything. Maybe Neal doesn't fall immediately asleep, maybe his brain won't shut up, but it's worth the inner turmoil to preserve the peace around them.


	9. Chapter 9

There's a soft knock on the door the next morning that wakes Neal up, and the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is the back of Andrew's head. He likes the feeling he gets when he sees it, sees Andrew, and maybe he's getting a little too used to this, waking up in the morning with someone else in his bed. What he wants to do is ignore the door and kiss Andrew awake, just stay in bed all day, pretend reality doesn't exist. Except it does, and it means that there's brunch and a memorial service, another afternoon full of grieving ahead for Andrew, and for his brother, who is probably on the other side of Neal's door.  
  
Andrew stirs a little when Neal rolls out of bed, finding his boxers and pulling them hastily on before answering the door. Maybe he should be a little more worried about what Dave is going to think, but at this point he's pretty sure Dave's got it figured out anyway. Looking out the peephole proves that it is his bandmate and not the maid or something, and he pops the door open, standing half behind it as he reveals Dave on his doorstep.  
  
"Hey," Dave says, and he looks subdued, tired, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that Neal's sure are only temporary.  
  
"Hey," Neal responds, noticing how Dave keeps his eyes on Neal's face.  
  
"I wasn't sure if you'd set an alarm," Dave continues, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. "And I figured Andrew was with you, so I thought..." There's a pause, and it's a little obvious that Dave is struggling to not make something out of the situation. "I wanted to make sure you guys were awake," he finishes, and Neal's reminded why he considers Dave his best friend.  
  
"Thanks," Neal replies, and he is grateful, because he's not sure if Andrew had set an alarm on his phone or anything, and he knows they didn't do anything with the digital clock in their room.  
  
Dave looks like he wants to say something, like he wants to look past Neal into the room and be able to see the answers to his questions. Every day a new piece of the puzzle falls into place, how far things have gone, and Dave doesn't look particularly pleased by the revelations. But now's not the time, they both know that. "I'm going to go get dressed. You two can just meet me in my room when you're ready. We need to leave in about half an hour."  
  
"Okay," Neal affirms, and they share a long look, more of that nonverbal communication they're so good at. Neal's going to have to answer all of those unspoken questions, probably a lot sooner than he was hoping.  
  
Andrew's laying on his back when Neal closes the door and turns around, and Neal can see his dark eyes from across the room. He crosses the carpet in a few strides, climbs back into bed, resting at Andrew's side. "Your brother says we have thirty minutes to get dressed," Neal says, and Andrew nods.  
  
"I heard him."  
  
Neal hates the expression on Andrew's face, because the pain is back now in full force, the exhaustion. They don't say anything else for several long minutes, Andrew staring sightlessly at the ceiling, Neal watching Andrew's chest move as he breathes. For the hundredth time Neal doesn't know what to do. Should he get up and shower, see if Andrew follows suit? Should he say something? Hold Andrew's hand? He finally decides to go with option one, but he reaches out to squeeze Andrew's shoulder before he gets up, stripping his boxers back off and heading into the bathroom.  
  
He takes a quick, hot shower, stands in front of the foggy mirror with a towel around his waist as he attempts to shave as fast as his can without mutilating himself. Halfway through it, Andrew crosses behind him to the shower, managing to not touch Neal, to not make eye contact in the mirror. Neal does his best to ignore the broken sounds of Andrew's breathing, to concentrate on his razor and the strips of shaving cream on his face rather than on how angry he feels, how pissed off he is that this had to happen, that he can't do anything but watch two of the most important people in his life suffer.  
  
Andrew's still in the shower when Neal goes to get dressed, and even in the nice suit he got before they left, he feels like an impostor here. Maybe for the first time in his life he's actually a little embarrassed by the tattoos, the lip rings, and the three quarter inch plugs in his earlobes. He looks like a farce, and he knows people are going to look at him and wonder why he's there, what right he has to be at a funeral for a nice, upstanding lawyer with a caring, normal family.  
  
Strangely, it makes him want to know the same thing. Does he really have any right to be here? What makes him think he belongs, as part of this family, as whatever he is to Andrew? He shakes his head at his reflection in the mirror over the cheap hotel dresser, reminding himself how he ended up in this position in the first place. Impostor indeed.  
  
He doesn't get any more time to berate himself silently because Andrew comes into the room, naked, going about collecting the pieces of his suit that Neal stripped off him the night before. Neal wishes he had something to do, rather than try to not watch Andrew get dressed. He goes back to the bathroom to mess needlessly with his hair, to give himself another stare down. Whatever Andrew needs, that's what he'll do. Even if that means giving Andrew his space.  
  
Andrew doesn't say anything as they walk side by side down the hall to Dave's room, is silent the entire journey down to the parking lot, the ride over to Kendra's house. He sits in the front seat next to his brother, and Dave attempts a few times to start a conversation, but eventually gives up because Neal can't really hear him, and Andrew's not even pretending to participate. He does talk to his mom when they get there, and to his grandmother, but Neal has a hunch he's only doing that so he doesn't upset  _them_.  
  
Neal feels like he's holding his breath. He sits between Dave and Andrew at a second table that's been hauled into Kendra's dining room, across from Beth and her husband, and Dave and Andrew's grandma. People are talking - mostly Dave and his step-dad - but Neal isn't really hearing it. His ears are ringing, and it finally dawns on him that he's probably having a panic attack. He hasn't had one in a long ass time, and it's about then that Neal remembers his last cigarette was more than twelve hours ago. He can't get up and remedy that now, not immediately, so he breathes deep, focuses on gripping his fork and keeping his hands from shaking. It feels like it takes hours before Dave gets up to help his sister-in-law clear plates, and Neal retreats to the backyard as fast as he can without looking like he's insane. Except he sort of is, losing his grip.  
  
This time he sits on one of the swings in the middle of the yard, and he smokes the fuck out of the first cigarette he pulls out, finishing it off in record time. He feels instantly better, more calm, less like he's going to shake apart. The world inside that house is resonating on a frequency that he can't survive in.  
  
Dave comes out halfway through Neal's second cigarette, sits on the other swing, gripping a chain and sort of twisting, like a restless little boy might. "You okay?" he asks, and Neal coughs on a sound that might have been a laugh.  
  
"You're asking  _me_  that question?"  
  
Dave shrugs. "You looked like you were freaking out in there a little."  
  
"Nicotine withdrawal," Neal replies, waving the cigarette in his fingers as punctuation.  
  
Dave nods, but it's pretty obvious he doesn't really buy the excuse. "You know you don't have to go to the service, if you don't want to," Dave says, mentions like it's offhand. Neal takes the time to frown at him, deeply.  
  
"The fuck I don't," Neal tells him, before sucking down another lungful of smoke. "And I want to be there." It's not really a lie; Neal does want to go pay his respects. Maybe he didn't know Adam all that well, but he was a good brother, a good  _person_ , and that deserves to be recognized, celebrated.  
  
They sit in silence while Neal finishes his smoke, Dave swinging just a little, pushing himself to and fro with the tips of his boots planted in the grass. It's not a heavy silence, but it sort of feels like the calm before a storm.  
  
Cigarette butts pocketed, they head back inside, and a few minutes later they're one car in a caravan of vehicles headed to the cemetery. It's just Neal and Dave in Beth's car this time, Andrew staying with his mother, not leaving her side as they sit down in the first row of chairs at the graveside. Dave gives Neal a little pat on the back before he joins them, and Neal finds himself sort of wandering, walking through gravestones, idly reading the names and dates and epitaphs. He thinks about what he might see on his own headstone, what the people he'd leave behind would think of him, what they'd want the world to remember.  
  
He walks back over to Adam's freshly dug plot when he hears the officiator start the service. He's a reverend, probably Methodist, but Neal doesn't know enough about the church to be able to identify the emblems on the man's vestments with any certainty. Neal takes a chair on the far side of the back row, tries to be inconspicuous as he cranes his neck so he can see Andrew, seated between his mom and his brother. There are a lot of words that are designed to make everyone here feel better about the fact that Adam is dead; that he's in a better place now, that God saw fit to end his suffering on Earth, that he lives on in the hearts of the people whose lives he touched. It's bullshit, meaningless, and platitudes like these are one of the many reasons Neal isn't a fan of organized religion. He could say these words as easily as Mr. Man of God up there, and probably sound more sincere.  
  
The whole ritual of the funeral isn't something Neal really gets. Yes, it's for the living, the grieving, but it seems like a pretty vicious way to rip the scab off a fresh wound. Bring up all the happy memories only to have to face the fact that those times, they're over, and you'll never get them back.  
  
He's not listening until there's a pause, and when Neal focuses it's to someone coming up to speak, the first eulogy. He doesn't know this woman, but it doesn't take long to identify her as Adam's mother. She doesn't say much, she can't, her voice breaking as she fights through tears, apologizing and wiping her eyes over and over with a balled up tissue. This is torture, agony, because Neal doesn't even have more than one or two memories of Adam, but watching this is tearing him up inside. Immediately after, Stan says a few words, and he's monotone, reading off a wrinkled page, detached enough to complete his speech but rendering it almost completely emotionless.  
  
The nervous fluttering feeling is back in Neal's chest, the palpitations, the tremors in his hands.  _Please, God, don't let Andrew get up there_ , he thinks, because he honestly won't be able to stay and watch. Beth is next, and she's teary eyed but her voice barely wavers. She tells stories and jokes, slips a few serious anecdotes in about Adam's battle with cancer, mentions Kendra and the kids several times. At the end, Dave gets up and joins her, holds her hand and kisses her cheek, then does the same sort of thing. It's very plain to see where Dave and Andrew get their personalities.  
  
Dave spends a lot of time talking about being a little kid with a brother so much older than him, but relating all the ways that Adam was part of his life, his and Andrew's, and Neal doesn't have to see Andrew to know he's losing it. Dave's watching his little brother, and they both fall apart together, which is when Dave has to take a moment to compose himself, eyes squeezed shut and fist pressed against his mouth.  
  
He finishes quickly after that, goes back to Andrew's side, and Neal hopes it's over,  _please, let it be over_.  
  
The reverend is back, closing the service, inviting the family and friends to proceed to the graveside if they want to say goodbye, mentioning the reception at Kendra's home afterward. Neal's out of his chair as soon as other people start moving, walking a dozen steps away with his back to the casket. He's not sure if he can smoke, but fuck, he wants to, wants to be done with this. He's not sure why he's reacting the way he is, why the whole thing is so suffocating.  
  
He jumps when someone places a hand on the small of his back, and his heart is hammering in his chest before she can make her apology. Beth's expression is always so candid, and Neal never has to guess what she's thinking.  
  
"Hon," Beth says, sympathetic, and he instantly feels seven kinds of guilty that he's making  _her_  feel bad for  _him_. "It was so good of you to come. I know my boys appreciate it."  
  
He forces himself to smile, because he owes her at least that much for coming to speak to him, trying to relieve some of his obvious discomfort. "I wanted to do something. I can't imagine what they're going through. What you're all going through."  
  
"I bet you can," Beth disagrees, and she actually reaches down to hold his hand. The gesture is important, Neal knows that, and he doesn't hesitate in returning it. "People don't give you a lot of credit, but you're a smart guy. A good kid." She squeezes his hand before releasing him. "I'll see you back at the house?"  
  
"Yeah," Neal responds, smiles at her as she walks away.  
  
This family. He's caught up in it, tangling himself in it more all the time. And it's not like he minds, he doesn't, but he wonders if Beth knows it as much as he does.  
  
The need for a cigarette has only amplified since Beth's departure, so he puts enough space between himself and the funeral party to be able to smoke unnoticed. For those few, detached moments he pretends he's back in Tulsa, and the world is wide open in front of him, Dave is just a bartender and Andrew's a high school kid and none of them have the worries that have built up since them. It's amazing how much freedom is off limits when you finally make your dreams come true.  
  
People have started to leave by the time Neal walks back, mostly just the immediate family still lingering to the last. Kendra's sobbing her heart out in her mother's arms while Dave and Andrew seem to be trying to distract Gage and Gracie, themselves too. Neal's not sure why he does it, but he walks past all of them, finds himself standing there next to Adam's coffin.  
  
What a pretty box for someone who is just going to slowly rot, who can't appreciate it. It doesn't make  _sense_. Why is there this fucking layer of gloss over something as horrible as death? Yeah, sure, the trees are reflecting off the lacquered surface, the sun glinting against the polished gold handles, but it's still a casket, and Adam's body is still inside it.  
  
Maybe that's what makes him lay his palm over the shiny, curved lid. He doesn't say anything, though he sort of feels compelled to, to tell Adam he was obviously a good brother, husband, father. Adam probably already knew that anyway. He sees the letters spelled out over the backs of his own fingers,  _GOES_ , and that actually seems perfect.  _So it goes._  
  
A little breeze picks up, just at that moment, pushes Neal's hair across his forehead, and it feels like an answer. And, somehow, like a blessing, like the sun is warmer on his skin.  
  
Dave's at his elbow when he steps back, and they embrace, easy and normal, except the way Dave's shoulders shake, just a little. He opens his eyes and sees Andrew, his one year old nephew propped on his hip, the baby's fist wrapped around the width of his tie. The warm wind is still blowing, little gusts ruffling Andrew's dark hair, sunlight glinting off the wet surfaces of Andrew's eyes. It's so fucking tragic, the perfect picture of bereavement, the shattered pieces of the life Adam left behind. Even worse is how beautiful the image is, hauntingly so, and Neal can't stop looking at it, even as Dave pulls away. He has to force himself to stop staring, blinks hard, startled at the feeling of wetness along the seams of his eyelids.  
  
He watches the trees fly past the window as Dave drives them back across town, his mind wandering. He can't get the afterimage of Andrew at the cemetery out of his mind, can't stop wondering what he finds so alluring about it, why it makes something twist hard in his chest. He follows Dave into Kendra's house and goes straight out the back door, but his swing is already taken.  
  
Andrew's crying, and it's obviously not the first time Neal's seen it, not even the first time today, but this is...  
  
Heartbreaking. Andrew obviously thinks he's alone and he's completely letting go, both palms pressed hard against his face as he weeps into them. The sounds he's making, they're gut wrenching, broken, and it's scary and ugly and like being slapped hard across the face and punched in the gut at the same time. Neal turns to go back inside, because he's definitely not supposed to be here, but his boots scuff on the cement and Andrew inhales, deep and sudden, and when Neal looks over his shoulder he sees Andrew, doing the same thing.  
  
"Neal," Andrew manages, his voice thick with sorrow, and Neal crosses the lawn, pulls Andrew out of the swing, and kisses the saline off Andrew's cheeks.


	10. Chapter 10

Back at the hotel, the three of them linger a little in the hall outside Dave's room, almost like Andrew and Neal are dropping him off. Dave unlocks his door and the knob makes a popping sound when he twists it, shoving the door open. But he doesn't go inside, braces his foot against the bottom to keep it open, eyes on Neal's.  
  
"I, uh." He takes a deep breath, like he's trying to hold himself up. "Do you guys want to come in for a little bit? I know you probably, well, whatever. But I don't really want to be alone. At the moment."  
  
They look so alike, sat side-by-side on Dave's bed, propped against the headboard, dark slacks and white undershirts, bare feet. It's like a progression, because Dave looked a lot like Andrew does now about five years ago, and Andrew looks more and more like his older brother every day. They're laughing, and it's totally an inside joke that Neal's not a part of, but he can't help laughing with them. Hours of sharing their sorrow, it's like his emotions are completely tuned into theirs. Dave bumps Andrew's shoulder and their eyes meet and there it is again, the white flare of jealousy, of Dave's love for Andrew.  
  
Of Andrew's love for Dave.  
  
They talk late into the night, even though Neal and Dave have to get up early to catch their flight. It's well after three in the morning when they finally decide to grab a few hours of sleep, and Neal gets up to leave, stooping to grab his boots and slinging his jacket over his shoulder before Dave says, "Hey, you don't have to go." It's how he ends up pressed into bed with Andrew and Dave, between them, and it's almost like a cruel joke, and the best night of his life all at once.  
  
He sleeps restlessly, waking up every time he wants to roll over or move, because Dave's bed is big, but not  _that_ big. There's a lot of touching, accidental and purposeful, and it all feels like a fever dream, hot and sweaty and Dave's back against his, Andrew's legs tangled, so much breath against his skin. His dreams are broken too, half of them about running from an unseen pursuer, and the others deeply sexual, just snatches of scenes, Andrew's mouth, his naked body, two sets of hands touching. Neal knows one is his, even without the telltale markings on the skin, but the other...  
  
He knows who those hands belong to as well, and as wrong as it is, his subconscious seems to enjoy the thought, crave it. He wakes up ridiculously hard, pinned between the two halves of his fantasy. He can't really escape, not without disturbing everyone, but he's so turned on it hurts, and not really in a good way. He shifts as carefully as he can, presses a hand down beneath the blankets and grabs himself, squeezing a little. He just wants it to ease up, because it's going to be embarrassing no matter what, but right now it's also uncomfortable.  
  
What he's doing now isn't working, so he tries something different, getting his hand down the front of his boxers and touching his dick, skin on skin. It feels nicer, and he can stroke it a little, slowly, which finally starts to take the edge off. That is until Andrew opens his eyes, blinking, and Neal has to stop moving, stop breathing, all his work undone by the way Andrew looks at him.  
  
"You okay?" Andrew whispers, and Neal inhales as he squeezes himself in his fist.  
  
"Yeah," Neal breathes back, and  _God_ , Andrew's so close, their legs still touching, and he knows Andrew has the solution to his problem. All he'd need to do is reach out and grab Andrew's hand, pull it down there and let Andrew feel it. There's no way Andrew would deny him relief.  
  
Except the issue is Dave, who makes a funny noise right at that moment, moving a little, and yeah, that's Dave's ass right up against Neal's. This is totally karma for his dirty thoughts, even if they were mostly beyond his control. "Time's it?" Dave mumbles, and Andrew rolls his eyes.  
  
"The clock is on your side," Andrew responds, but he's sort of grinning at Neal, and hell, why is this happening to him? He'd give just about anything to just have two minutes alone with Andrew right now.  
  
"Whatever," Dave mutters in response, and he shifts so his butt isn't sharing the exact same foot of space as Neal's anymore. "Shit, it's after seven already," Dave says, and fuck, that is a problem, since they need to be at the airport by 7:30. They really need to work on setting alarms, because they all seem to suck at it. Dave sits up and pushes out of bed, grabbing his pillow and chucking it at Neal and Andrew. "Stop staring at each other and get dressed," he commands, disappearing into the bathroom.  
  
Andrew flings the pillow on the floor, sitting up to do what he's told. Except Neal pulls his hand out of his shorts and reaches out to catch Andrew by the arm, tugging Andrew down against him. "Neal," Andrew objects, though he doesn't move, and it just takes a second for Neal to adjust his hips so that Andrew can feel his erection against his upper thigh. "Oh wow," Andrew breathes, and Neal can't help himself, getting a palmful of Andrew's ass and grinding against him a little. "Is that for me?"  
  
"Yes," Neal tells him, fingertips digging into the flesh of Andrew's buttock, hooded eyes on Andrew's face.  
  
"So unfair," Andrew says, and Neal can tell how right he was, that Andrew would be more than willing to help him out.  
  
"Jesus, you guys," Dave complains, obviously done in the bathroom. Andrew freaks, pushing himself away from Neal hard enough that he practically falls out of the bed, twisting oddly so he manages to get his feet under him so he can stand up.  
  
"Going to my room," Andrew explains in a rush, grabbing his clothes and shoes in one big wad and running out the door without even putting them on. Dave laughs as the door closes behind him.  
  
"Let's hope he doesn't run into the maid," he says, and the smile he gives Neal is warm and genuine. And then he goes back to packing his suitcase, like he didn't just catch them fooling around  _again_.  
  
Neal goes to his own room (after putting his pants on, thank you very much) and packs in a hurry, just finishing up when a knock at his door tells him Dave and Andrew are ready. The ride to the airport is a little hectic, Dave and Andrew arguing about what route to take to get there fastest, Dave complaining about Andrew's driving, and Andrew responding with witty comebacks. They do manage to pull up to the curb outside departures in record time, and Neal stands back as Andrew and Dave hug each other tightly, hearing them both very clearly say  _I love you_  before pulling away.  
  
And then Dave is retreating a little, grabbing his bag and taking a few steps toward the doors, turning his back to Andrew and Neal. He's giving them a moment, and Neal feels his chest fill with gratitude. Andrew doesn't seem to be sure what to do, so Neal takes the initiative, pulling Andrew into an embrace, holding him close.  
  
"Take care of your mom," Neal whispers into Andrew's hair. "And yourself, okay?"  
  
"Yeah, okay," Andrew replies, and Neal loosens his grip just a little, pulling back so he can look Andrew in the face. "Thank you," Andrew adds, and Neal nods.  
  
"Always," Neal tells him, turning his head just a little to see if anyone's watching and then leaning in to press a quick, light kiss to Andrew's mouth. "See you around," he says, letting Andrew go.  
  
"Yeah," Andrew says again, stepping back as Neal shoulders his bag. "See ya."  
  
The flight to Ohio isn't a long one, and Dave's pretty quiet for the first twenty minutes, like he's contemplating something. Neal doesn't try and engage him in conversation, just orders drinks from the flight attendant and tries to get his brain in order so he can play a rock concert in a few hours. It feels like it's been weeks since the last time he touched a guitar, rather than just a couple of days.  
  
He rests the hand holding his latest beverage on his knee, tipping his head back against the headrest. He's tired, maybe managed to string together two or three hours of sleep the night before, and thinking about that just leads to him thinking about his dreams, about Andrew. He didn't really have time to consider it when they'd rushed off, but he has no actual idea  _when_  he'll see Andrew again. It doesn't bother him per se - he knows it's only a matter of time until Andrew turns up on tour, as often as he's done it so far - but it does make him want to know how long it's going to be, how many days or weeks or whatever he'll have to wait to see Andrew in person again.  
  
It's almost like Dave can read his thoughts, because it's right then that he finally breaks his relative silence by asking, "What's going on with you and Andrew?"  
  
Neal opens his eyes. It's not like he hasn't been waiting for this - more accurately determinedly avoiding it - but now he has nowhere to run, no way out of it. He takes a long drink of his Jack and Coke, swallowing it down hard before he replies. "I don't know."  
  
Dave sighs. He didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night either, and that doesn't seem to have done a lot for his patience. "You're going to have to do better than that."  
  
This is where, if Neal was involved with anyone else, he'd tell Dave to mind his own business. But the problem is that Andrew  _is_  Dave's business, and Dave deserves at least some kind of explanation, after everything. "We haven't talked about it," Neal tells him, truthfully, because they  _haven't_. Neal hasn't even given it a label inside his own head, because he  _can't_. They're not just friends, they're definitely not what Neal would consider lovers, or a couple, or even fuck buddies, because it's all more complicated than that. What he does know is that he likes being around Andrew, has always liked that, but now there's this unspoken thing between them, the idea that being together means having sex together. And Neal can't say he doesn't like that, having sex with Andrew, specifically with  _him_ , and it makes his belly burn with adrenaline when they make eye contact, the memory of the last time, anticipation of the next.  
  
"Maybe you should," Dave says, and Neal almost forgets what he's responding to, his mind snapping back to the conversation.  
  
"Maybe." Neal finishes off his drink and attempts to send a telepathic message in the direction of the flight attendant so he can get a refill.  
  
"Look, Andrew is twenty-one and he can do what he wants," Dave goes on, "But I'm still his older brother. I have to watch out for him. It's genetically encoded."  
  
It's not an accusation, and it's not a threat, but even with the cute twist at the end, it's close to both. "What do you think I'm going to do? Knock him up and leave him or something?"  
  
"No, but you could screw him up," Dave replies. "You know Andrew. He gets attached to people, he can't help himself. And then he gets hurt when he finds out they don't feel the same way. I've seen it happen way too many times."  
  
Neal turns in his seat, stares at the back of the flight attendant's head, willing her to  _please_  get him more liquor. It doesn't work, and he has to turn back into Dave's intent stare. "What do you want from me, huh? You want me to, what, break up with him?"  
  
"No," Dave responds. "Just..." He pauses, rubbing his fingertips over his eyes. "Be honest with him. Don't let him fall in love with you if you're just planning to leave him for the next best thing."  
  
Neal's about ready to get up and replenish his whiskey himself. "He's not in love with me," Neal says, tone hard. "And we're not together."  
  
"You sure about that?" Dave asks, expression serious.  
  
Neal opens his mouth to say yes, he's sure, but then, is he? Okay, he is pretty sure Andrew doesn't love him, but the other part, they haven't discussed anything and there haven't been any promises or commitments made, but Neal hasn't slept with anyone else, hasn't  _wanted to_ , and he's fairly certain Andrew isn't fucking anyone else either. It doesn't mean they're officially  _together_ , but it begs the question, do they want to be? "I don't know, man," Neal finally says, crushing the plastic cup in his hands a little. "None of this was planned, it all just happened. It's not like I asked him out or anything."  
  
"But you're here," Dave points out, and by that he means at a family event, involved, like a significant other would be.  
  
"I didn't do it for him," Neal lies. "I did it for you. For your whole family." Dave gives him a look, beyond disbelieving, and Neal decides to play dirty and turn things around. "Speaking of which, where's your  _boyfriend_? Too busy, or was he afraid people would find out he's not the virginal Mormon angel everyone thinks he is?"  
  
Dave's expression tells Neal he doesn't appreciate the tactic, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "I told him not to come," he says, shortly.  
  
"You didn't want him here?"  
  
Dave shakes his head. "Yeah, I wanted him here. Of course I did. But I didn't want to turn Adam's service into a circus. You don't think people would notice if he just showed up like that?"  
  
"Who cares what people think? Fuck them, because they're making shit up about you all the time anyway..."  
  
"That's not the point," Dave cuts in. "It's not about protecting myself, it's about protecting him, about protecting my family. I would hate myself if I turned my brother's funeral into a scandal." His mouth is a hard line across his face, and Neal feels a little guilty, because he's supposed to be trying to make Dave feel better, not worse.  
  
"I'm sorry," Neal says, flatly, but not insincerely. "I'm an asshole."  
  
"I know," Dave replies. "Just do me a favor and save that bullshit for me. Leave Andrew out of it." Dave looks resolute, imploring, and Neal makes a point of nodding acquiescence.  
  
"Yeah," he agrees, and even while he's not completely sure if he  _can_  do that, for Dave, he'll at least try.


	11. Chapter 11

The schedule's a little screwed up, because after that one show in Ohio, they have five days off before they fly to the Philippines. Neal goes home to LA and doesn't do much more than laundry and hang out with his dog for those five days. And then he's packing his life back into a suitcase, dropping Mr. Sixx off with friends, and meeting the band at LAX.  
  
The flight is almost 21 hours long, after a couple of stops, but it's not as bad as it could be, considering. Neal drinks a lot, but that's nothing new, and Kyle is pretty liberal about sharing the Valium he brought with him, so they're in Manila almost before they know it. They make their way through customs, get their luggage, and are herded through the airport and out into the oppressive, summer heat.  
  
Of course the first thing Neal does is smoke, but even that feels different, the humidity in the air making it feel heavy, cloying. They're loaded into cars, AC blasting, and Neal sends up a prayer to the God of technology, plus an extra thank you to whomever is letting him smoke inside the vehicle.  
  
They move through the city on the way to their hotel, cruising as best they can through moderate stop-and-go traffic. Everyone's tried, Kyle's still fairly stoned on anti-anxiety pills, and no one's saying a whole lot. Dave's having a conversation with Art about logistics, but they're keeping their voices low so Neal can't even eavesdrop properly. He relaxes back against the seat, tipping his head to watch the city go by, tall, multilevel buildings, tropical plant life, lanes and lanes of vehicles. It's not all that unlike LA, looking at it from that perspective.  
  
They're booked in a luxury resort, and the rooms they get - one for each of them - are insane. Neal's pretty sure he's never been inside a hotel room even half this nice before in his life. He's staring out of the huge floor to ceiling windows when a knock at his door heralds a bellboy with his luggage, and he instantly feels like a dick because he can't tip this kid. He tries to explain, but the guy just waves him off, seeming perfectly happy to be doing his job with or without extra reward.  
  
Once he's alone again, he stands for a long minute in the center of the room, unsure of what he should be doing. He has that strange bone deep feeling of exhaustion you get from crossing way too many time zones, from being told it's daytime by the sun in the sky, but not being sure how true it is.  
  
He goes to Dave's room, right next to his, and knocks on the door. It takes a minute, but eventually Dave comes and lets him in.  
  
"What do you think of these rooms?" Dave asks, and it's apparent he feels the same way about their suites as Neal does.  
  
"Fucking crazy," Neal responds, crossing to Dave's set of enormous windows.  
  
"I know." Dave moves to stand beside him, and Dave's looking out at the city, but Neal's looking at Dave's reflection, admiring the undisguised awe on Dave's face. "I can't believe this, being here. It's almost as crazy as that USO thing." Neal shakes his head, because yeah, he can't really wrap his head around it either. "I just worry about when it all starts to-"  
  
There's a knock on the door, and it halts Dave mid-sentence, sending him across the room to pull the door open. It's Archie, and Neal's not sure why, but he was pretty much expecting it to be him. He has to admire Dave's restraint, because he puts on a big smile and invites Archie in, and anyone who might have seen it would just think they were close friends, like back in their Idol days.  
  
As soon as the door is shut, though, Dave has Archie in his arms, his face buried in Archie's neck, fingers bunching in Archie's shirt as he hangs on, like he'll fly off the face of the Earth if he doesn't. And Archie's clinging back at least as tightly, head tipped so he can hook his chin over Dave's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. This is almost worse than watching Dave hug Andrew, because the love there, it might be stronger, but this is different. This has more heat, this has  _passion_. And, as if to prove that point, Dave breaks the hug so he can kiss Archie, first his neck, and then he shifts his hands to Archie's face, cupping both cheeks and tilting his head, pressing their mouths together. Neal can tell Archie's nervous, because Neal's in the room, Neal's  _watching_  them, but Dave doesn't let Archie keep the kiss shallow, nudging his way past Archie's lips, pushing it  _deep_. He moves to wrap his arms around Archie's shoulders, pulling the kid's body flush against his own as he bends his knees, trying to get them on the same level.  
  
When they pull apart, Archie looks dazed, face blotted with a hectic blush, eyes dark and heavy lidded, lips swollen. It's practically pornographic, and even better because Archie has no  _idea_.  
  
Dave, on the other hand, is a different story. He swallows hard, and shares a look with Neal, the meaning coming across loud and clear.  
  
"Think I'll go smoke," he says, and then he has Archie's eyes on him too. The expression on Archie's face is strange, like he's two seconds away from giving Neal a lecture, or hiding under the bed. But Dave's eyes fill with gratitude, and Neal tries to swallow down the bitter taste of rejection as he rides the elevator down to the lobby.  
  
His phone doesn't work in Manila, but Neal gets it out anyway, once he's outside, lit cigarette between his lips. He goes into his inbox, scrolls way back through his text messages, reads ones from Andrew that are weeks old now, starting with the one Andrew sent after they'd jerked each other off in the back of Andrew's car. There are a handful just like that one, all in a row, about how Andrew's mouth still feels strange from the last time Neal kissed him, or how he masturbated listening to specific songs by MWK, how much he misses Neal's cock. It's stupid, but all those things make him feel so fucking lonely right now, standing outside a hotel in a country he'd never dreamed of visiting, cut off in every way from the one person who could make him stop feeling like garbage.  
  
He flips to the photo library, scrolls through a bunch of pictures, mostly of weird looking beverages he drank at funky college bars, Andy and Kyle and Joey being jackasses, his dog from the last time he was home. There's even a picture or two of Alexis that he saved because he's not too proud to look at photos of his ex when he wants to get off. Except he hasn't used them that way in a while, can't believe he doesn't have any pictures of Andrew on his phone.  
  
Finally, he comes across one, and it sucks because not only is Dave also in the picture, but Andrew's way in the background, talking to that weird Idol kid with the dreadlocks. This picture must be from the one time he and Andy went to see Dave on the show. He zooms in as much as he can on Andrew's face, and even though it gets a little pixelated, he doesn't care, because it gets Dave out of the picture. He presses his thumb against Andrew's cheek, almost like he can really touch it like he wishes he could.  
  
And then he closes out of the phone entirely, because what kind of girl is he being, going through shit like a love-sick idiot. He's just upset that Dave's upstairs with his boyfriend doing God knows what. They're probably cuddling, or something equally gay, crying about how much they missed each other. He flicks his cigarette butt away from himself violently.  
  
What he really wants is a stiff drink, but he has no idea if this hotel has a bar, and if they do, if the bartender speaks English. He doesn't have anything but American money anyway, and he has no fucking clue how that even works.   
  
He goes back upstairs, to his own room, but he slows his strides as he passes Dave's door, as if he can hear them in there. He can only hear the shit his brain makes up for him.  
  
Sitting on his bed, he almost hopes they're fucking, because at least that will mellow Dave out a little. God knows he's waited long enough. He turns on the television, but there aren't that many channels, and most of them are in Filipino, so he lands on something that's relatively non-irritating, finds that picture of Andrew on his phone again, and jacks off. Because what else does he have to do?  
  
It only makes him feel worse.  
  
This show, it's a big fucking deal. They're going to be playing for a metric fuck-ton of people, like  _a hundred and fifteen thousand_. This is like an arena rock wet-dream, having that many fucking people screaming for  _him_ , a guy who could barely afford to pay his rent two years ago. And, okay, they're probably mostly there for Dave and David, but Neal's not stupid enough to not see the girls in the crowd looking at him like they'd be willing to do just about anything to get ten seconds alone with him. He doesn't want that, not all that much, but he does like the attention, the hot feeling of being wanted so viscerally by someone who doesn't even know you.  
  
What he could use, right now, is booze and sex, definitely in that order. He wants things that will drown out the incessant thoughts in his head that remind him that Dave's locked up in his room with someone else, that no matter how many gorgeous girls with huge, fake tits would be willing to suck his dick, none of them are what he really wants. He can't have that, not now, probably not ever.  
  
If Andrew was here, Neal would be using him to show Dave how much he doesn't care anymore. Because Andrew has most of Dave's good qualities with the added bonus of being a terrific cocksucker and not so full of himself that he can't see what's going on around him. He doesn't have to guard his opinions or put up with the bullshit Dave does because no one gives a damn, he's still fucking free, on the outside of all this, but close enough to be able to understand. They haven't talked since the day before Neal left for Manila and it doesn't matter, because Andrew's not worried about Neal running around fucking half the population of Southeast Asia considering he probably expects it, and doesn't give a God damn. And when they all get back to the States and he and Andrew are in the same place again, they'll end up in bed together and Andrew won't ask questions, won't want details, will just be there like he's always been, no judgment. If Andrew was a chick, he'd be the perfect girlfriend. And fuck it, because _this_? Is better than any relationship Neal's ever had.  
  
He's riled, and it's one of those moments that could go sixteen different ways depending on what he does next. The one thing he does decide, though, is that he probably needs to not be alone.


	12. Chapter 12

Andy looks a little tired when he answers the door, and Neal has a feeling he woke him from a nap. Neither of them speak, they don't have to, and Andy steps back from the doorway, letting Neal into his room. Neal's barefoot, left his boots in his room, and just climbs into Andy's bed like he belongs in it. To be fair, Andy's never objected to having him there.  
  
"What's news?" Andy asks him, propping a couple pillows up against the headboard so he can sit back.  
  
"Archuleta just got here," Neal says, and Andy nods, understanding.  
  
"He with Dave?"  
  
"Naturally," Neal answers.  
  
Of course Andy doesn't know for sure what that means, not exactly. Neal kept his word, hasn't told anyone what he knows about Dave and his little runner up. He wishes he could right now, though, get it off his chest, so he could commiserate. So he could stop feeling like he's holding his breath.  
  
"Go ahead, spill it." It's not that Andy can read his mind, but Andy can tell, always, when something's weighing on him. And, to be very honest, that's part of the reason Neal's here. Except that he really doesn't want to say what's on his mind, all those little pieces added up, some parts of it truths that he can't reveal. "I'm going to make a wild guess it has something to do with Andrew Cook."  
  
Well, damn. Neal didn't think it would go  _that_  way. "What makes you say that?"  
  
"Because I have eyeballs?" Andy responds, tilting his head to look at Neal from his slouch. "Because every time he's in town, you mysteriously disappear, and I never seem to have a roommate?"  
  
Yeah, you don't really have to be a rocket scientist to put two and two together on that equation. "We hang," Neal says, and Andy rolls his eyes.  
  
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"  
  
"Just because I'm spending time with him, doesn't mean we're screwing around," Neal tries, because what does he have to lose? Andy won't believe him, but maybe he'll give up, if Neal keeps putting up a front.  
  
  
"Uh huh," Andy mutters. "You know I'm not buying that."  
  
He's right, Neal does know. "Fine. But it's not a big deal."  
  
"It never is, with you," Andy replies, caustic. "Seriously, what is it with you and your best friends' siblings?" he asks, and it's not the kind of question he honestly expects Neal to answer, mostly because Andy already  _knows_ , but also because it's leading, built to cut deep.  
  
It's not something Neal likes to remember, definitely not his finest hour, one time when those extra shots of whiskey were probably not a good idea. Andy's picking at the scab, does it every once and a while, because payback is a serious bitch. That doesn't mean Neal just has to sit there and take it. "You are not bringing this up."  
  
"Why shouldn't I? It's not like I forgot you said it."  
  
Okay,  _ouch._  "It's not like it matters." And it doesn't, because Neal never planned on saying it out loud, he knew better, was more than happy to take that particular secret to his grave.  
  
"Oh, that's right," Andy replies, sitting up, and there's no softness to his tone. "You took it back."  
  
Neal closes his eyes, rubs at a temple with the tips of his fingers. "I thought we were done with this." And he did, he honestly thought, three years and countless long, late night conversations later, this would stop coming back up between them.  
  
"No.  _You're done with it._ " Neal doesn't look up, hears Andy's frustrated exhale, feels it.  
  
"What's the point of holding on to something that's never gonna happen?" Neal asks, pointedly, because he's  _tired_  of this. "I've told you a thousand fucking times, I didn't mean for you to find out. Ever."  
  
"Fucking my sister was definitely an acceptable alternative," Andy snaps, and then almost immediately softens. They've had this argument more times than either of them can remember.  
  
"I loved your sister," Neal replies, just like he always does. This is usually when Andy makes some comment about how those words don't mean nearly as much when you can just turn around and pretend you didn't say them. He doesn't bother this time, but he levels Neal with a dark, serious stare.  
  
"You're not doing the same thing again, are you? Please tell me you're not," he asks, and there's almost a level of desperation to the tone. Neal's silence is worse than any answer he could attempt to give. "Fuck, Neal."  
  
"I know," Neal replies, and he has the grace to let Andy see the guilt, the shame. "It's not going to go that far, not this time."  
  
Andy shakes his head, mouth twisted in disgusted disbelief. "I don't know why you bother trying to lie to me. It's a little pathetic."  
  
"I'm not lying," Neal says, and Andy shakes his head again, looking even more appalled.  
  
"Please. You're already in too deep. It's written all over your face." Andy rakes his fingers through his long hair, scraping it away from his forehead, pushing it back behind his ear a little. "This is going to blow up, just like it did with Lexi, and you're going to act surprised, like you had no idea it was coming. And then you're going to blame Drew for not proving you wrong, and you're going to blame Dave because he wouldn't just fall into your arms like you wanted." Andy takes a second, breathing in and out through his nose, like he's trying to temper himself. "You have to stop doing this. You have to stop."  
  
"I can't," Neal says, bluntly, and it sounds like a copout, but it's  _true_. Neal's built all wrong. He doesn't fall in love with people like everyone else, he falls in love with music, via melodies and chord progressions and the register of another person's voice. He fell in love with Andy's hands and Andy's notes and then just with  _Andy_ , with the songs Andy had inside. And he hid it, because he knew what kind of damage it would do, except then he saw Andy's eyes when he looked at Alexis, Andy's hair, Andy's smile, and God damn, those who forget history indeed.  
  
All the way down to the stupid admission, though at least Neal hadn't told Dave he was in love with him, even if those weren't the exact words he'd accidentally blurted to Andy, one stupid, drunken mistake that he could never make right.  
  
"Bullshit," Andy tells him, harsh, like only someone who really cares could say it. "Do you honestly think this is going to end well?"  
  
Andy, he doesn't fuck around, not when it comes to Neal. There's no reason to, because they've seen the absolute worst in each other, and the best too, have shared way too much in crappy motel rooms in the middle of the night when they were both ready to give up. Neal doesn't even know what to say, because the things he'd told Dave on the plane won't fly here. Andy can read him like a fucking book, can see into his soul like he's made of glass.  
  
"You haven't even thought that far, have you." Again, not a question, Andy's just putting words to what he's seeing plain in Neal's expression. "Maybe you should."  
  
It's more than a little eerie, the echo of words, like really vivid déja vu. "Yeah," Neal agrees, because he  _should_ , for Andrew's sake, for his own.  
  
"You ever listen to him sing? Like, just by himself?" Andy asks, and Neal knows where Andy's going with this, trying to help Neal tip the balance.  
  
"Not really," Neal admits, because Andrew, for being as outgoing and crazy as he is about most things, is terrified to let people hear him sing. He's fine harmonizing, or singing along with the radio, but when it's just him, and someone's eyes on him, he forgets that he's actually pretty good at it.  
  
"You should," Andy urges, and it really sounds like Andy knows what he's talking about. "If you can get him to relax, his voice is really good."  
  
Neal swallows, because it really feels like something is starting to catch in his throat. "And you know this how?"  
  
"I've heard it," Andy replies, matter of fact, and Neal desperately wants to know what Andy did to get Andrew to sing for him, considering Andrew won't even sing for his own  _mother_. Just for Dave, pretty much only for Dave.  
  
"Huh," Neal huffs, trying to sound non-commital. Andy just blinks at him with his huge, round eyes, and yeah, Neal really shouldn't bother. "How'd you manage that?" he goes ahead and asks, because why the fuck not?  
  
"I asked him."  
  
Of course that's all it would take Andy, with his earnest expression and beguiling eyes. Neal probably won't even be able to bribe him with sex.  
  
"You should write a song with him," Andy adds, and it might sound offhand, but it's definitely nothing close. "He's good with lyrics. Better than I am."  
  
Andy's trying to change the stakes here, to prey on Neal's tendencies. He knows what Neal saw in Dave, what Neal saw in  _him_ , and maybe, if he can make Neal see those things in Andrew, there will be a future for them. Andy can see to the end of the road on this, remembers how it went down when Alexis finally put the pieces together. Andrew won't react the same way, but the end result is the same; one brokenhearted, bitter, jilted ex-lover, and one extremely pissed off, betrayed best friend.  
  
Andy's playing some fucked up kind of matchmaker.  
  
Neal doesn't feel like accepting the offer, but he doesn't want to reject it either, so he changes the subject. "You think they've got a bar downstairs somewhere?"  
  
Andy rolls his eyes, but goes with it. He knows better than to try and fight Neal when he's being stubborn. "There's got to be," Andy replies, sliding out of bed and sweeping his hair out of his eyes, crossing the room so he can step into his flip-flops.  
  
It turns out there's a bar by the pool, and that the entire staff speaks very clear English. Not only that, but drinks can just be charged to their rooms, so they don't have to worry about exchanging money either. In the spirit of the venue, Neal orders drinks that come in hurricane glasses garnished with fresh fruit and sporting colorful, plastic straws. They're all rum based, and taste like candy, but Neal doesn't have anything better to do, so he just keeps ordering more.  
  
He and Andy sit in a pair of lounge chairs near the big, blue, amoeba-shaped pool, hiding under an enormous umbrella. Neal's Irish heritage causes fun things to happen when he's in the sun for extended periods of time, namely that his skin breaks out in a trillion little freckles that are neither attractive nor badass. Andy's got similar issues, considering he has a complexion that's a couple of shades lighter than your typical vampire. He, however, is at least is wearing shorts. Neal's in jeans and a dark t-shirt, wore his boots down to the pool, but has since shucked them, going barefoot. The cement feels pleasantly warm under the soles of his feet, and the liquor is quickly making him more relaxed.  
  
Also, potentially, more adventurous, because after about half an hour, Andy convinces him to go to the pool's edge. He rolls his jeans up to his knees, sits side by side with Andy as they dip their feet in the cool water. They sit in companionable silence until Neal notices the skin on the back of Andy's neck starting to go red beneath the dark strands of his hair, and they retreat to their beach chairs.  
  
"See?" Andy says, wiping his hand down the side of his drink and transferring the condensation to his overheated skin. "It's not so bad."  
  
"It's hot," Neal says in response, and Andy makes a face at him, but Neal already feels better.  
  
Until, of course, Dave shows up, and Archie's with him, and they drag chairs over to share Neal and Andy's shade. Andy is happy to see Archie, starts a conversation with him and Dave, and Neal just sits there, silent, staring at the very subtle red marks on Archie's throat. Dave notices, gives him a warning look, but Neal doesn't stop. It's not like Dave can do anything about it now, not with Andy here, and if he gets any shit for it later, well, it's not as if he doesn't have something to hold over Dave's head.  
  
The next few days go very similarly. Dave and Archie have a bunch of press and local television they have to do, so the rest of both bands end up sightseeing together, escorted by some local tour guides 19E tracked down for them. It mostly amounts to eating a lot of interesting food, drinking, and melting in the muggy atmosphere. Andy enjoys the hell out of it, not only because he has all sorts of exciting things to photograph, but because he gets to constantly make jokes about the state of Neal's complexion.  
  
He also points out to Neal, at least twice a day, the things he finds that would be nice gifts for Andrew. He's reasonably discreet about it, and the prodding is mostly lighthearted, but it does start to get under Neal's skin.  
  
The afternoon before the show, when they're walking back from lunch before soundcheck, Andy spots a little liquor store, and they duck inside, if nothing else than to get out of the sun. Neal wanders a little, just looking at the bottles, the colors and shapes that are different from the kinds he's used to from back home. But then Andy calls to him from the isle over, and when Neal goes to investigate, Andy's holding a dark bottle in his hands.  
  
"Check this out," Andy says, handing it over to Neal. The label identifies the liquor as a rum called Tondeña Manila Rhum. It's obviously made here, has little seals on the label that are apparently 'Awards of Excellence.'  
  
"Rum?" Neal asks, wondering what's so special, because he's not really much of a rum drinker himself.  
  
"Yeah," Andy replies, wiping some sweat off his forehead with the side of his hand. "You should get some for Andrew."  
  
Andy's mouth is quirked in a bit of a smile, and yeah, he's joking again, except for the part of him that's  _not_ , a deliberate look in Andy's eyes. Because Andrew  _is_  a rum drinker, has been since the first rum and Coke Neal made him on his seventeenth birthday, even though the soda was flat and warm and the rum was the cheapest shit they could find.  
  
Neal gives Andy the customary dirty look, re-shelves the bottle, and goes back out the door into the sweltering heat.  
  
A few minutes later, when Andy and Joey have found a little cart selling sun glasses to waste some time at, Neal goes back to the liquor store, and buys two bottles of Tondeña Gold.  
  
Neal thinks about those bottles of rum when he's watching Archie's set a few hours later, standing in the wings between Dave and Kyle. Every time he glances at Dave he's got the same expression on his face, like he's watching a sunrise or seeing shooting stars, amazed and awed and so blatantly in love. It sends little bolts of jealousy through Neal, and Neal forces himself to think about Andrew each time it happens. Andrew who is back in Missouri, hopefully thinking about him, who wants to be with him. Who he wants to be with, too.  
  
It gets harder when Archie's done and the roadies are changing the set, Dave very adamantly telling Archie how great he was, losing himself in the moment and reaching out to wipe away a sweat droplet on Archie's cheek. No one else seems to think that it's odd, but Neal feels himself flinch, has to turn his eyes away and tell himself to stop holding his breath. Dave stays right up in Archie's personal space until the last second before it's time for them to hit the stage, and Neal feels cranky and out of sorts when they launch into their first song.  
  
It doesn't last long, though, not when the house lights come up and Neal can see the thousands of people out in the crowd, going on and on seemingly without end. It's in that moment that he remembers a gig he had with Andy back when they were still in high school, the number of people in the audience low enough that Neal could count them on his fingers. It's ridiculous, the then and now sensation, the hard work and sweat for all those years finally paying off. The energy from these people, it's palpable, and Neal soars through the setlist, songs and banter and the grateful eyes in the sea of faces flying by. He tosses picks into an ocean of upturned hands, tries to give the crowd some of their power back by losing himself, body and soul, to the moment.  
  
All the sudden, they're in the encore, about to play the last song, and this one, it's Dave's closure, his last goodbye. He dedicates it to the crowd, to his brother, pointing up toward heaven, and he manages to hold on until Neal starts playing the opening notes of the song, and then he loses it a little. The song builds from there, and Neal's filled up with so many different emotions, being part of something as big as this, remembering Andrew standing in the sun in a cemetery in Indiana, Adam's face when he got to see Dave sing on the big stage at American Idol. He's playing part of farewell, the end of this show, the end of life as they know it.  
  
Dave has Archie join them in the middle, and Archie's voice rings out, careful not to step on Dave's toes, but supplying this beautiful little addition, like a grace note. It makes Neal's heart ache, but in a different way for the first time. Hearing the two of them together, their voices rising up, coaxing those of the people in the crowd, it's perfect and amazing, and Neal has to turn his back to the audience for a few minutes because he can't keep the emotion off his face. He plays his solo into the drum kit, head bowed, trying lift Dave and Archie's notes even higher. In that moment he feels like he's letting go, like he's giving himself completely without wanting anything in return. He leaves it all out there on the stage, every last ounce of himself poured into the final, resonating notes.  
  
There's an after party at e's Bar in the hotel, and Dave makes an appearance, but he doesn't stay more than about forty-five minutes and then slips out without saying goodbye to anyone. Neal notices, but Neal's been sort of tuned in to Dave since the show ended. He catches Dave's eye as he heads for the door, and they share one of their customary nonverbal conversations. Not that Neal needs that to know where Dave is going, and why.  
  
And, once again, Neal feels almost like an island in a room full of people. His bandmates are chatting around him, and he's not really contributing to any of the discussions, but Neal's never been the center of these things anyway. He drinks and he listens, not so much to the words, but to the sounds of individual voices. Inside his head, he thinks about Andrew's voice, recalls some of the exact words he heard Andrew say the last time they spoke on the phone before Neal left the country. It's been about six days since he's talked to Andrew, and he's gotten so used to having such easy contact with him, the absence is really starting to make itself apparent.  
  
They close down the bar, and the wake up call this next morning is particularly unpleasant. Neal decides to prove the hair of the dog theory once again when they're on the plane, orders a drink about every time the flight attendant passes by. This flight is a lot less enjoyable than the one on the way to Manila, feels longer, dragging on and on despite how many naps Neal forces himself to take. He's on edge, craving nicotine like a son of a bitch, anxious to be back in the States where his phone works and he doesn't feel completely cut off from reality.  
  
Unsurprisingly, the very first thing he does when they're on the ground in LA, while the plane is even still taxiing, is text Andrew. He tries to be patient, waiting on the reply, but he doesn't notice how his right leg is jiggling until Andy claps a hand over his knee, fingers digging into the cap.  
  
"Settle down," Andy says, giving his leg a swat as he lets go, and Neal puts some active tension into his quads to keep them immobile. A couple of minutes later the seat belt sign goes off, the flight attendants open the doors, and the band spills out of their jet into the Los Angeles heat. Neal keeps checking his phone, but he doesn't get any messages all the way through the airport, or while they're waiting for their cars.  
  
They're put up in a nice hotel out by the Nokia Theater, where they're playing the American Idol Season Eight Finale show in a couple days. Archie's with them, convinced by Dave to come, the kid's dad in tow as well. It makes Neal feel like he's being watched, judged, because he's exactly the kind of guy Archuleta's dad wouldn't want anywhere near his daughters. Or his sons, for that matter.  
  
If only dear old Dad knew what Neal's friend Dave was doing to one of his precious, pious children.  
  
Dave must have the strongest resolve ever created, because he just goes with it, doesn't seem to be upset by the fact that he'll probably be getting little - if any - alone time with his teenaged boyfriend. Neal's about ready to lose his mind and he's only been going solo for about eleven or twelve days, and he's not even really involved with the person he's sleeping with. They're checked into the hotel and Neal's had time for a shower and an intense masturbation session before he hears back from Andrew, missed text alert on his phone when he's got himself dressed again.  
  
Apparently Andrew was in class, has a bunch of stuff he needs to finish before Memorial Day weekend. Neal supposes that means there's no way Andrew will be coming out in the middle of the week to see the Idol Finale. For some reason it pisses Neal off a little, because he wants Andrew to blow off a couple of days of classes like he has in the past, come out and watch his brother play the song he wrote for Adam, hang out at the after party, then have an after, after party with Neal. It's not like Andrew's going to use the degree he's getting, or like he'll fail out of school if he misses some classes.  
  
Of course Neal isn't a big enough dick to not realize what he wants, for Andrew to fuck off from school so he can get laid. It's not like he can't sleep with someone else, like there's not a willing body somewhere around this town that Neal could get to come back to his room with him. He doesn't have a commitment to Andrew, doesn't need Andrew to get off. It doesn't matter that Andrew's been the only reason, by participation or not, in the recent past. There's no reason it  _has_  to be that way.  
  
Neal just seems to prefer it.  
  
Andrew's got a knack, it seems, for timing, even when he has no idea he's doing it. Neal hasn't responded to the initial text, but a second one comes in, and Neal reads it off the screen without picking up his phone.  
  
 _You alone?_  
  
He is, and he's glad, because his affirmative response is answered by a phone call that leads to him being half naked on his big hotel bed, letting Andrew talk an orgasm out of him that he had no idea was possible, considering the length of time since the last one he gave himself. He's literally shattered when it's over, the sound of Andrew's voice on the other end of the line, saying dirty fucking things about how he's coming so hard he's got jizz on lenses of his glasses, that he wishes Neal could feel it, how fucking tight he is. It's ridiculous, because Neal's imagined things like this, like coming on Andrew's face, like holding him down hard and fucking him until he can't remember his name, but hearing Andrew say stuff like that, Andrew's voice, it's like six hundred times hotter.  
  
"God," Andrew sighs against the receiver, breathless. "I fucking want you."  
  
"Yeah," Neal replies, carelessly wiping his hand on the front of his t-shirt. "Fly out here, I'll give it to you however you want. I'll even buy your ticket."  
  
"Fuck, I wish," Andrew says, still sounding utterly blissed out. "Fucking summer school."  
  
"So come meet us this weekend. We're in, uh..." Neal has to stop and think, because he pretty much came his brains out. "Connecticut or some shit."  
  
"New York on Friday, Mass on Saturday, New Haven on Sunday," Andrew confirms, reciting the dates by rote. "Memorial Day's Monday, so I have a three day weekend."  
  
"See, that's fucking perfect."  
  
Andrew breathes a laugh into the phone. "I can't afford a plane ticket right now, Neal."  
  
"I'll cover it. Fucking serious."  
  
"Jesus, you must be desperate," Andrew replies, jokes. "Am I really that good a lay?"  
  
"Yes," Neal answers, before he even runs the question by his brain.  
  
Andrew laughs again, but the sound of it is a little weird. "You don't have to fly me out there. I swear, I'll be here when you guys go on break."  
  
"I don't want to wait," Neal says, sitting up in his bed, jeans still around his knees. "What good's all this money if I can't blow it on stuff like this?"  
  
"Ha! So I'm like a really expensive booty call," Andrew responds, and his tone is genuinely amused.  
  
"Yeah, kinda," Neal grins at the phone, because he's almost got Andrew convinced. "Come on, I'll totally make it worth your while. I'll even get you a seat in business class."  
  
There's a pause, like Andrew's considering, and Neal tries to be patient, and not too hopeful. "My mom's going to kill me," Andrew finally says. "Okay, I can probably swing New Haven, as long as I fly back on Monday."  
  
"Fucking excellent," Neal replies.  
  
Neal books the flight as soon as he's off the phone with Andrew, not even bothering to pull his pants up first. He has the ticketing agent send the itinerary to Andrew's email, feels a little smug that he knows Andrew well enough to not have to guess about his date of birth or his middle name. He waits until dinner to tell Dave that his brother is going to be at the show on Sunday, and almost chokes on his beer at the look Dave gives him at the news. As usual, the rest of the band is clueless, decides that Neal is a certified crazy person, and leaves it alone.


	13. Chapter 13

Andrew turns up about halfway through the first opening act, catching Neal alone in the green room. Neal can't help himself when he sees him, setting the guitar he was playing down haphazardly and grabbing Andrew by the shoulders, forcing him against the wall next to a tall cabinet and pinning him, kissing him hard enough that Andrew's head connects solidly with the drywall behind him. Andrew's hand finds the back of Neal's neck, fingertips digging in as he kisses back with the same force, their teeth clashing, smashing their lips, tongues shoving deep. It's desperate and violent and if Neal knew where he could take Andrew so they wouldn't get caught, he'd fuck Andrew immediately. As it is, they have to force themselves apart, Andrew's already generous lips swollen and red from the contact.   
  
Neal can't stay away, doesn't want to wait,  _needs this_ , so he dives back in. The kiss is gentler this time, but no less intense, and it instantly reminds him of the first, in Kansas City, folded in the fog of intoxication. Back then it was something else, but this time Andrew is the drug, the craving, and Neal's going to drink his fill. He pays attention to how it feels when he curls his tongue around Andrew's, touching and tasting, feeling the subtle little dips and hollows. He makes sure to note the way Andrew's mouth is different than any other he's kissed, catalogs the way Andrew moves, how they touch. So he can feel when the tension in Andrew's lips change, notices the shift of his hands to Neal's shoulders, easing them apart.  
  
"Fuck, Neal," Andrew says, lowly, panting from the lack of oxygen. "It's only been two weeks. I'm a little worried what you might do if we had to wait a whole month or something."  
  
Neal's mouth quirks in a smile. "Let's just make sure that doesn't happen."  
  
"That's up to you and your charitable donation to the Fly Andrew Cook Around the United States Fund." Andrew touches his mouth with is fingertips, and Neal feels his cock stir at the sight. "Your face is a little red," Andrew remarks, and Neal reaches up to rub his jaw, the skin feeling a bit tender.  
  
"Must be your beard," he replies, and he makes note of how much it's grown out since the last time he saw Andrew, completely clean-shaven in Indiana. "I like it, though. You look good with it," he tells Andrew. "More like your brother."  
  
The last part, it's not supposed to mean anything, and Neal wasn't even really comparing them until the second he said it. Except it completely shifts the expression on Andrew's face, and Neal can feel the universe tilt, like the ground is about to drop out from under him.  
  
"Like my brother," Andrew says, shaking his head, and it's like little moments and hints are starting to fall into place. "Wait, you... You want me to  _be him_ ," he figures out aloud, his tone shocked, hurt. "Oh my God, I should have seen this coming. I mean, why..." He laughs, and it's cutting, harsh. "Why the fuck else would someone like you want someone like me? Oh my God. I'm such a fucking idiot."  
  
"Andrew," Neal starts, but he doesn't really know what to say, just stands there, silent.  
  
"It totally makes sense now. Like, why you like it when I'm not wearing my glasses." Andrew shakes his head, and he actually pulls his glasses off his face, holding his arms wide. "Well, guess what? I'm still not David. I will never be David. And you know what else? I don't need anyone to remind me that I don't measure up. I get that message shoved in my face on a daily basis. And I sure as  _fuck_  don't need a reminder from  _you_."  
  
Andrew turns on his heel, takes a few steps away before turning back around, shoving his glasses back on. "One more thing," he says, an angry growl, pushing his hand down into the pocket of his jeans. When he withdraws it, he's holding something in his fist, and he tosses it in Neal's direction, the motion almost careless. Neal catches it, and even without looking he knows what it is.  
  
That might have been the end of it, but right before Andrew reaches the door, Dave comes in, and Andrew clips his brother's shoulder in his haste to escape. Dave turns to watch him go, calling his name once, before looking back to Neal.  
  
"What's going on?" Dave asks, and Neal's got to give it to him, his tone is curious, not accusatory.  
  
"I, uh," Neal starts, and the stammering is so uncharacteristic that Dave catches on immediately.  
  
"What'd you do to him?"  
  
"Nothing," Neal responds, defensive.  
  
"Oh, you know I know that's bullshit," Dave replies, and his jaw is set in a way that Neal knows means trouble. "What did you say to him, Neal?"  
  
"Nothing! I didn't say a damn thing to him. He just came in here and got all upset with me when I made a comment about his beard."  
  
Dave scowls. "Did you insult him or something?"  
  
Neal sucks a breath through his nose. "Not exactly."  
  
"What the fuck do you mean,  _not exactly_?"  
  
"He's under the impression that I..." Neal doesn't like this, appearing weak, but something is swelling in his chest and making it hard for him to get the words out. "He thinks that I wish he was you."  
  
Dave's expression changes, drastically. His eyes are dark, murderous, lines coming out across his forehead. "You son of a bitch," Dave mutters, lowering his voice. "You better tell me that he's wrong, because if I found out you were using my little brother to... To fulfill some depraved fantasy you have about  _me_..." Dave shakes his head. "Tell me he got it wrong, Neal."  
  
Neal's not sure why - because maybe there's still a tiny little bit of that lingering, even if it's not even remotely the only reason anymore - but he can't. It wouldn't even hardly be a lie, but Neal can't say it, because it started that way, because there is still a part of him, no matter how small, that  _does_  wish it was Dave instead of Andrew. The silence wears on, just Neal's guilty gaze locked on Dave's accusing stare.  
  
The only warning Neal gets is Dave's nostrils flaring about two seconds before he feels Dave's fist against his jaw. He reels from the impact, stumbling to the side, palm coming to his face automatically. "You fucking hit me!"  
  
"You're damn right I hit you!" Dave replies, shaking his left hand. "You're lucky we have a show tonight, or I'd do it again."  
  
"The fuck?" Neal says, opening and closing his mouth, the right side of his face aching. "I've done worse things, and you've never fucking punched me before."  
  
"He's my brother, Neal. My little brother. If you weren't my friend, I'd fucking kill you."  
  
"Because I hurt his feelings?"  
  
"Because you don't fucking  _care_. He's going to get over this, but he didn't fucking deserve it. He deserves the fucking world, and I would give it to him, if I knew how." Dave swallows, and for the first time, Neal notices his eyes are wet. "The least I can do is beat your ass for treating him like shit."  
  
Neal has nothing to say, and it doesn't end up mattering, because Dave just frowns at him, looking like he's done with it, at least for now. He doesn't say anything before he leaves the room, Neal standing alone in the ringing silence.  
  
He peels open his palm, Andrew's parting gift sitting there, ruts left behind in his skin from where he clenched his fist around it. His ring, the one that never meant a damn thing to him, that Andrew had apparently been carrying around ever since that first night in Kansas City. Neal doesn't want it, doesn't even want to look at it anymore. He thinks about throwing it as hard as he can, letting it end up wherever momentum and gravity take it, or just pitching it into the first trash can he sees.  
  
He does neither. Instead he takes it between his thumb and forefinger and slips it on, right back into the place it held before he last took it off.  
  
The concert is a blur. There is, obviously, a ton of tension between Neal and Dave, and it comes across almost violently sexual on stage. Neal breaks three guitar strings, has to play pretty much the entirety of  _Declaration_ without his high E, and when the encore ends, he goes straight out the back door, just so he can breathe.  
  
He hasn't felt this angry in years, enough fire in him that he wants to destroy something. He smokes two cigarettes in a row, because he needs to calm down, defuse the bomb before he does something stupid or self-destructive.  
  
Most of the rage he's feeling is directed at Dave, but not for the obvious reasons. This is really all Dave's fault to begin with, because if he'd just kept dating women, if he hadn't shown that he could have a relationship with another guy, Neal would probably have gotten over it. No, Dave had to be in love with an eighteen year old Mormon  _boy_ , someone who couldn't be a worse match for him even if he tried. Neal's never given a damn about rejection, but for some reason  _this hurts_ , being overlooked in favor of someone Dave barely knows. It's not his fault he loves Dave, not his fault that's what he wants, has wanted. Andrew...  
  
Andrew just happened. It wasn't supposed to go as far as it did, anywhere past that one night. But there have been _nights_ , stuff that wasn't just fucking, and Andrew's fucking heart getting involved, and now, well, Andrew and Dave both know the truth. Andrew was stupid enough to trust him and he got his heart broken in the process. That isn't Neal's problem either.  
  
Of course Andrew's still there when Neal comes back inside, standing in the green room with Dave, smiling. That is until he spots Neal, and his face goes stony, fire lighting in his eyes. Dave sees it, turns his head, and immediately takes steps in Neal's direction.  
  
"No," Dave says, firmly, getting into Neal's personal space. "You don't get to be here right now."  
  
"The fuck I don't," Neal responds, because he's sure as hell not going to let Dave push him around all night. "I've got more right to be in here than he does."  
  
"No you don't," Dave cuts in, words hard. "If you want to get technical, I'm the one who employs you, pays you. If you want to stay with this tour, you'll get out now. Just for tonight, please, don't fight me."  
  
Neal notices he's got several sets of eyes on him - Dave's, obviously, Andy's, Joey's, the guys from the opening bands - and he figures that if he tries anything, launches any kind of attack - physical or vocal - on Dave, he's going to be outnumbered really fast. So he puts his hands up, takes two steps backward toward the door. He catches Andrew's eyes again, just before he crosses the threshold, and he's not sure what passes between them in that look, but he feels simultaneously pissed off and shitty when he finally turns down the hall toward the exit again.  
  
Dave doesn't talk to him the entire bus ride to Ohio. In fact, the only person who says more than two words to him is Andy, because everyone else just wants to know what the hell is going on, and Neal's not in a particularly sharing mood. He doesn't even give any details to Andy, just tells him it's between him and Dave and to stay the hell out of it. Andy doesn't look pleased, but he doesn't press the issue, at least not with Neal.  
  
Dave's on his cellphone most of the next day, texting, and Neal has a feeling the messages he's sending are to Andrew. To be honest, it's driving Neal crazy, because he wants to know what's being said about him.  
  
He wants to know if Dave is ever going to forgive him.  
  
Dave's voice is suffering a little during sound check, and they cut it short, Dave keeping his distance, his phone pressed against his ear the moment he has the chance to use it. Neal can't help himself, holds his breath and listens as hard as he can. He isn't really able to pick up much of the conversation, but toward the end, when the noise around them seems to still for just a moment, he hears Dave say, "Yeah, I miss you too."  
  
It's not Andrew he's talking to, that's obvious now. It's Archie. Neal's heard Dave say that exact phrase more than once, is usually sickened by the tone, but this time, there's a longing ache that's different. Something has changed, since Manila, since that show in LA for the American Idol Finale. Whatever it is, the sound of it on Dave's voice is like a knife in Neal's heart.  
  
This isn't going to end. It's not a phase or one of Dave's passing obsessions. What's going on between them is real, and lasting, and it's like the very last shred of hope has dissolved. It's over.  
  
Neal's not sure he's felt this way ever, gutted like this. Angry, sure, upset, but not lost, not empty. He finds his acoustic guitar backstage and sits down on a ratty couch to play, the guitar making the sounds his heart physically can't. There's a lot of long, wailing notes, and bending the stiff acoustic strings is starting to make his left hand throb, so he has to stop. He's not going to mess up any of Dave's shows, no matter how rotten he feels. He rotates his wrist slowly, feeling the bones pop, curling his fingers with a wince and then flexing them. He makes a fist, exhales with the protesting pain in his tendons, and thinks that maybe he deserves this. Whenever he's made a mistake, somehow, he's ended up paying for it.  
  
"Your hand bothering you?"  
  
It's Dave, expression somber.  
  
"A little," Neal admits, moving to take the guitar off his lap.  
  
Dave nods, sits down beside him wordlessly. The silence spins out into long seconds, and Neal's starting to feel crushed by it when Dave finally speaks again. "I'm sorry I punched you," he says, staring straight forward. "I shouldn't have done that."  
  
Neal turns his head, takes in Dave's face in profile. "It's okay," he replies. "I deserved it."  
  
Dave breathes deep, shoulders rising. "Maybe. Still, you're my friend. I have more respect for you than that."  
  
Just what is Neal supposed to say to  _that_? Because, at this point, Neal's not even sure he can respect  _himself_. "It's cool, man," he says, finally, because he doesn't have anything else. "Are we cool?"  
  
Dave finally turns to look at him, and there's a tiredness in his eyes that Neal really doesn't like. "Yeah. I mean, I'm not real happy with you right now, but we're still friends. Best friends."  
  
Neal nods this time, relieved, though completely understanding that there's a level of trust that's been lost that will take some time to get back. "Andrew...?"  
  
"He's pissed," Dave answers Neal's unfinished question. "And hurt, but that's pretty much a given. He's been sending me suggestions via Twitter about how to get rid of you since he got home." Dave's mouth twists a bit into a smile, though not a pleasant one.  
  
"Ah," Neal responds. "Anything interesting?"  
  
"Well, mostly they just involve throwing you out of moving vehicles or pushing you into traffic, but he did have this one long, drawn-out scenario where I would poison you slowly with quinine. I think he's been watching a lot of CSI lately or something."  
  
Neal eyes Dave's growing smirk with one of his own. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"  
  
"A little, yeah," Dave replies, smiling more naturally. "You know my brother. He's hilarious when he's mad."  
  
Yeah, Neal does know Andrew, knows him well enough that he knows that he uses self-deprecating humor when he's upset, that as much as he cries over little things, he doesn't want people to see him hurting. "I didn't go into this with the intention of hurting him," Neal says, and Dave's smile disappears completely.  
  
"I know," he replies, sighing softly.  
  
There's a long moment where neither of them speak, Dave leaning on his forearms across his knees, Neal slouched back against the sofa. It's an odd, uncomfortable silence between them, and Neal feels unsettled. He doesn't know what makes him ask, but the next thing he says is, "When did you know you were in love with Archuleta?"  
  
Dave looks more than a little surprised by the question, head lifting and mouth falling softly open. "Uh..." He licks his lips, and Neal can see the side of Dave's neck mottling with a blush. "Pretty much the second they said my name instead of his at the finale. I was so sure he was going to win, I'd already worked out what I was going to say to congratulate him. But then it wasn't him, it was  _me_ , and I was hugging him... The only thing that I could think about was how much I loved him."  
  
Neal shook his head. Leave it to Dave to fall into something like that and land on his feet. "What is it about him? I mean, I don't get it. At all. He's not even remotely your type, not to mention, if I remember correctly, you're not gay."  
  
"No, I'm not," Dave responds, and he leans back at Neal's side. "But you know as well as I do that I'm not totally straight either." He gives Neal a look, crossing his legs at the ankle.  
  
"As for him not being my type... You know, every relationship I've ever had has always crashed and burned spectacularly. And every time, I just go back out and hookup with the same kind of girl all over again, expecting a different result. I always seem to end up with the kind of people where I never know if they're with me because they actually like  _me_ , or because they like what they think I am. Then eventually they discover my quirks and it's like suddenly I'm not what they want anymore. They don't want someone who spends Sunday on the couch watching football, or gets up and does crossword puzzles in his pajamas. They want the rock star, the parties, the wild lifestyle. But that's not me. I'm just always so sure they won't give me the time of day otherwise, I hide myself from them. And when they finally see what I'm keeping from them, well...  
  
"But the thing with Archie is that he saw the real me from the beginning. There wasn't any of the swagger or fronting going on with him. He laughs at my jokes, Neal, and not because they're funny. He laughs because it makes me laugh. He makes fun of me for doing crosswords, but then he tries to help me solve them. He doesn't care that I'm a slob or that I eat too much junk food or like watching football. He likes me despite all that, all my bad habits and unattractive traits. It's fucking stupid, but that's what it's about. He loves me for me, and I love him for that."  
  
Neal's never really talked to Dave like this, about his love life. Before it was all about the girls Dave is describing now, about how good they were in bed or how crazy their families were. This is different, enlightening. And, above all else, it makes sense.  
  
"You know, my brother's a lot like me," Dave adds, when Neal doesn't say anything. "He says he doesn't care what people think about him, but it's total bullshit. He's spent his entire life trying to fill this hole inside him, to stop feeling cast aside. He was only six years old when our parents got divorced, and by then Adam was in college, so it was just me and Andrew and Mom, and Andrew never understood why our dad would want to leave him behind like that. I was older, and I didn't really get it, but I never felt like it was my fault. Andrew... I'm fairly certain he's always blamed himself.  
  
"And I know that's not on you, and yeah, Andrew probably needs to talk to someone about this stuff, but I'm just trying to help you understand why he's so upset. He's felt like he's living in other people's shadows his whole life. He was so mad at me last year when I made it on American Idol and he didn't that he wouldn't talk to me for three weeks. I haven't gone without talking to him for three  _days_  since he learned how to talk. I felt so bad about it that I practically dropped out of the competition. The only reason I didn't is because I knew that would only upset him more.  
  
"Look, the point I'm trying to make here is that Andrew's a little sensitive, and he's got good reason to be, but he's not weak, and he's not going to let people fuck him over. I just wish it would stop happening, because if anyone deserves a break, it's him."  
  
"It wasn't completely about you," Neal finally replies, tone even, sincere. "I didn't fly to Indiana because I was trying to mess with him. I know what I said before, but the honest to God reason I got on that plane with you was because I promised him I would. Because he called me the night Adam died and I told him I'd go there to be with him." Dave is silent in response, turning his head away, pressing his lips together. "I care about him. He's as much a friend to me as you are, no lying. I'm just so fucked up..." Neal sighs, the sound exasperated. "I was just... I don't even know. I saw you that night with Archie, after you won Idol, and I just felt... Like, betrayed. Like you were choosing this new life over your old one, and maybe I'd be along for the ride, but it would be your show, man, your deal, and we'd all just be the fucking backing band.  
  
"And you know, the truth is, I don't even know how I feel about Andrew. Because it's all so fucking twisted up in how I feel about  _you_ , and... Fuck, you know? How'm I supposed to be honest with anyone else when I have no idea what the fuck's going on myself?"  
  
"You can't," Dave replies. "But you also can't just let things happen and expect to avoid the consequences. The only mistake Andrew made was letting himself get too involved too fast. I'm sure everything that's happened in the last few weeks exacerbated that, but Andrew's always been one to get attached. But he's not stupid, so he must have seen something in you that made him latch on like he did."  
  
Neal frowns, because honestly, he has no idea what the hell Andrew ever saw in him. Neal likes to talk a big game, and that's usually why people fall for him. Because they like how that looks on paper, trying to tame the wicked attitude, getting to catch that wild ride for a while, no matter how it turns out. But that doesn't apply in this case, because Andrew knows him too well for that. Andrew's in on all those secrets, has met the geek that lives in the center of all the flash, has all sorts of insider information about Neal's life, Neal's childhood, the stupid things Neal does that he wouldn't want to be public knowledge. It's not the moth to the flame this time, because Andrew knows all of that is just an illusion.  
  
"I don't know," Neal finally says. "He's your brother, you probably know better than me what the hell he's thinking."  
  
Dave shrugs. "Dude, I don't even know why  _I_  put up with you." It's a joke, but Dave's not doing it to be mean. He reaches over and rubs a little at Neal's shoulder, and it's obvious he's trying to be comforting. "At this point it's probably best if you both put it to rest. I mean, to be realistic, how long could a relationship like that last?"  
  
Again, Dave means well, but the statement makes Neal bristle. Just what the hell does he mean by a  _relationship like that_? He doesn't really know what was going on, what they had, where it could have gone. But there's no reason to argue, not now that Andrew wants less than nothing to do with him. "Yeah," Neal says, and it doesn't really sound honest, but it seems to be good enough for Dave.  
  
"Andrew'll get over it eventually," Dave assures him. "He's friends with most of his ex-girlfriends, which just baffles the hell out of me, to be honest." Neal cringes at the comparison, but Dave pushing himself standing, so he doesn't notice. "I'm going to go find something to eat. Interested?"  
  
"Nah," Neal responds, reaching down to retrieve his guitar. "Thanks, though."  
  
"Sure," Dave says, sliding his hands into his pockets. "See you later."  
  
Neal's mouth twitches toward a smile in response and Dave returns it, turning to leave him alone again. He's got the instrument in his lap, but he doesn't play it, wasn't planning to. It's a weird thing to think, that Dave basically referred to Neal as Andrew's ex, though he's not really sure what the prefix should be attached to. He just hopes it's not  _friend_.


	14. Chapter 14

There's a little over a week's worth of shows left before they get two weeks off, and Neal internalizes everything, shoves it down as far as he can so he can make it through. By the end of the month he's desperate to go home, lock himself away, and get the hell over it, over Andrew, over the whole fucking mess.  
  
It's easier said than done. He doesn't hear anything from Andrew at all, and he was probably expecting that, but the longer he goes without contact, the crazier it starts to make him. He dreams about Andrew constantly, though none of the images in his head are helpful or revealing, just little flashes of the sort of connection they had before, way before, when they hung out and drank beer and didn't have all the heavy emotional bullshit in the way. He actually gets desperate enough to start reading Andrew's Twitter, which is thankfully unlocked so he doesn't have to announce his stalkerish behavior.  
  
He pretends he doesn't feel guilty when he reads some of the things Andrew posts, like about how little sleep he's getting, and how much he's drinking, and one Tweet in particular where Andrew says that he's  _waiting for someone to come along and wow him with money and love. . .but mainly money. haha_. Yeah, haha.  
  
Neal does talk to Dave, and he asks how Andrew's doing, but mostly he gets reports about the stupid arguments the two of them get in over the state of the dishes, or stories Andrew tells him about school. He doesn't say anything about how Andrew's coping, and maybe that's because Andrew's moved on already, that Neal's been reading way too much into the stupid little 140 character things Andrew puts out there for the world to see. Neal doesn't pry, and eventually he stops asking, because he doesn't really need to know how easily he's being forgotten.  
  
It's on his mind a lot, Andrew is, what they had, and it makes him take the time to sort out what he actually wants, the way he wishes things had gone, how he'd gotten where he'd ended up. It stated with Dave, but not really, because it had all started with Andy, years and years ago. And Neal's said he's past that, but maybe he isn't, still, maybe Dave was where he went when he couldn't be with Alexis anymore, a long string of people trying to fill a hole, none of them ever the right shape. And then it went even further, so many steps down the line.  
  
When he clears the debris away, it all comes down to one Andrew trying to fill the place of another. It's the closest match he's found so far, maybe even enough that it was starting to become something real.  
  
It's about a quarter to two in the afternoon on Neal's first Sunday at home when someone rings his doorbell. Neal's not expecting anyone, and he's considering ignoring it in favor of continuing to watch six months worth of  _Myth Busters_  off his TiVo. But something makes him get up off his couch and at least go check. If it's not someone he wants to talk to, he can just pretend he's not home.  
  
He's more than a little shocked by what he sees when he looks out the peephole, blinking a couple of times to make sure he's not imaging it, that his mind isn't just showing him what he wants to see.  
  
Andrew has his hands shoved into his pockets, and he looks tense, despite the neutral expression on his face. He stares at Neal for a handful of seconds once the door is open before he finally speaks, saying, "Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"  
  
Neal snorts, he can't help it. Leave it to Andrew to show up  _in LA_  unexpectedly and still make a stupid joke like that. "Not recently, no," Neal replies, taking in Andrew's appearance. He looks tired, kind of gaunt, and Neal hopes that isn't his fault. Even though he thinks it might be. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I was in the neighborhood?" Andrew asks, and he shrugs when Neal shakes his head. "Didn't think so. Oh well." He takes a breath, shoulders sagging a little when he lets it out. "I actually just wanted to ask you a question."  
  
Neal's a bit incredulous. "You flew all the way to California to ask me a  _question_?"  
  
"Actually, my brother flew me all the way to California to ask you a question," Andrew amends. "Apparently I was driving him crazy."  
  
Neal's not sure what's going on here, why Dave would put Andrew on a plane and send him out  _here_  of all places, especially after what happened last time they saw each other in person. He knows he should probably be serious, but the whole situation feels so uncomfortable that he can't do it. "So he kicked you out and you're, what, looking for a new place to live?"  
  
"Yeah," Andrew answers, going along. "I already tried Andy, but he was going to make me sleep in his bathtub, so I'm here to see if you have a better offer."  
  
 _Way better_  Neal's brain supplies, but he promptly tells it to fuck off. He and Andrew are barely friends at this point. He has no right to even consider getting to share a bed with Andrew again. "Well, come in and we'll see what we can do," he says, stepping back to let Andrew into the house.  
  
Inside, Andrew doesn't make any moves to get further into Neal's house than the foyer, standing as stiffly as before, hands still in his pockets. "So, you wanted to ask me something?" Neal prompts when Andrew doesn't make any move to start on his own.  
  
"Yeah," Andrew replies, licking his lips. He looks nervous, and Neal sort of hates that it's gotten to this point between them. To be honest, he's not sure what he did to deserve to have Andrew here, in his house, but he's not going to question it. He didn't realize how much he missed seeing him, the actual flesh and blood of Andrew, his somber green eyes and thick, dark hair. Fuck, Neal even missed the way Andrew smelled, forgot what it was like, until now, and it's like he can't stop inhaling it. "All those times," Andrew starts, and he's not looking at Neal but rather at the rest of the hallway over Neal's shoulder. "When we were together. Did you..." He stops, blinks and focuses and his gaze finds Neal's eyes. "Was it ever about  _me_?"  
  
Neal feels the weight of the question right in the center of his chest. It's so simple, and so is Neal's answer, but he has to say it right. Because he's not going to lie to Andrew about this, but the last thing he wants to do is drive the wedge between them even deeper. "Aside from that first time, it was pretty much all about you," he says, and it's strange how the admission makes his heart ache.  
  
Andrew doesn't really react, just breaks the connection between their gazes again, eyes lowering. "Huh," he finally responds, and Neal doesn't know what to do now, what to say, so he just stands there, feeling confused and awkward and almost afraid of whatever is going to happen next.  
  
"So apparently being a reclusive shut-in is fine when you're living alone, but when you have a roommate, they expect you to do things. Like the dishes, or your laundry. Or eat regularly." Andrew's eyes are on Neal's again, and the pieces are starting to come together. "David thinks that I'm going to be pining for you forever unless I do something about it, so that's why I'm here. To get him off my case."  
  
"You don't want to be here."  
  
"I don't know what I want," Andrew replies, and for the first time there's some kind of real emotion to his voice. "Actually, no, I do. I want to go back to the way it was before I found out I was a poor substitute for my brother. Fuck, I'd even be okay with you just telling me that you don't like me, instead of telling me you only like me because I look like David."  
  
"That's not completely true," Neal points out, but it just serves to bring more anger to Andrew's eyes.  
  
"But it is  _partially_  true. I mean, how the fuck am I ever supposed to compete with David? Even if we ignore the fact that he's more talented, funnier, and better looking, you've been friends with him for years. And I'm just his annoying little brother that you've had to put up with all this time."  
  
"Andrew, shut up," Neal cuts in, and Andrew closes his mouth, though his jaw is set in a scowl. "Look, I know you get compared to Dave all the time, even when you were a kid, but fuck that, okay? I'm just as guilty as everyone else for doing it, but I'm not gonna anymore. It's not fucking fair to you, and it doesn't even make fucking sense." Andrew's expression doesn't soften at all, and Neal sighs. "I know there's not shit I can say that can fix what I did, but I do like you. I like  _you_."  
  
"You can't really blame me if I don't believe you," Andrew replies, and Neal nods.  
  
"You're right. I can't." And Neal figures this is it, because there's nothing else to say now. Maybe there will be a point where they can be friends and it doesn't feel like work, where Neal doesn't wonder what things would be like if he hadn't fucked everything up. He hopes it will happen, eventually, because he hates the way it is between them now.  
  
"God dammit," Andrew suddenly breaks the silence, taking his hands out of his pockets so he can rub at his eyes beneath his glasses. "Why the hell can't I just hate you? It would be a lot easier."  
  
"Uh." Neal doesn't have an answer for that, mostly because he doesn't want Andrew to  _hate_  him.  
  
Andrew takes his hands away, and his eyes are red, the dark circles underneath even more apparent. "You could at least have the courtesy to hate me first."  
  
Neal shrugs. "Can't," he says. "Sorry."  
  
"Yeah, right. You're not sorry."  
  
"That I can't hate you? No, I'm not sorry about that. I am sorry that you want me to."  
  
"I don't want you to. I just... I don't want to be one of those pathetic assholes that ends up getting back together with someone because they're too weak to stand up for themselves. I mean, what the hell is wrong with people that someone makes them feel like shit, but they still... They still want to be with that person? How fucked up  _is_  that?"  
  
All those things, those words,  _get back together with_  and  _still want to be with_ , they're sitting out there, tantalizing like beacons. And Neal wants to reach out and touch them, see if they're real, or if it's all just a trap. "Feelings are stupid, man," is what Neal says, trying to sound unaffected. "They make people do dumb things. Like punch brick walls."  
  
Andrew's lips twitch. He's heard that story, knows about how Neal broke his hand over his first broken heart. "You know what's  _really_  stupid?" Andrew wonders, though it's obviously not a question that Neal's supposed to answer. "I want to be someone who's worth punching a wall over." He gives Neal a look, a bitter smile. "Just once it would be nice if someone cared that much about  _me_ , instead of the other way around."  
  
"You gotta give people a chance," Neal replies, because he was headed that direction when everything went to shit. "These things are never easy. People fuck up all the time, especially people like me. I'm no good at this shit, I've never been a good boyfriend. You can ask anyone and they'll tell you. And you know what? That's never going to change, no matter who I'm with. It's just who I am."  
  
"I don't think that's true," Andrew disagrees.  
  
"Really."  
  
"Yeah." Andrew takes a deep breath. "It's probably just... You and me, we're not good together."  
  
Neal's shaking his head before he realizes he's doing it. "That's bullshit. We were fine together, until I opened my big, God damned mouth. And let me tell you, I wish to God I hadn't. I didn't think anything would come out of that night in Kansas City, but something  _did_. And I didn't hate it." Now Andrew's shaking his head, the look on his face breaking down. "Look, maybe you don't want to hear this, but I liked what was going on. I liked  _you_."  
  
"You're right, I don't want to hear it," Andrew says, swallowing hard. "I don't want you to  _like_  me." He closes his eyes tight, and Neal hears it, loud and clear, what Andrew isn't saying.  
  
Neal doesn't want to pretend he knows how things might have gone, but the idea that he might feel something more for Andrew, isn't not as far-fetched as it could be. "Who knows what might have happened," Neal says, voice low, his heart beating heavy in his chest. Andrew opens his eyes, staring Neal in the face, not masking of the emotions etched onto his own.  
  
"Fuck you," Andrew replies, but there's no power behind it. "Your timing sucks."  
  
"Well, then let me try again," Neal says, coming to some kind of sudden decision, taking a long stride in Andrew's direction and reaching out, cupping his face with both hands. "Up to you," he adds, a little louder than a whisper, his mouth close enough that he can feel Andrew exhale.  
  
Andrew's gaze is hard, his eyes dark and filled with challenge. "Give it your best shot," Andrew breathes, and Neal closes the bare distance between them, sealing his lips over Andrew's, just a lingering, warm press of their mouths together. When he feels some of the tension bleed out of Andrew's jaw, he nudges the kiss deeper, brushing his tongue across Andrew's bottom lip, sliding it past Andrew's teeth. It's a pleasant surprise when Andrew's tongue comes out to meet his, tangle with it, kissing him back. Neal moves to wrap his arms around Andrew's shoulders, pull him in close, and feels Andrew's hands at his waist, curving around his lower back, holding them together.  
  
They kiss for a few minutes, two or three, standing in Neal's entryway. And for probably the first time, when it ends, Neal doesn't feel like he needs to get Andrew's clothes off, like he needs to start it up again. He just pulls off, hands moving to the caps of Andrew's shoulders, looking at him. "Can you stay tonight?"  
  
Andrew breathes out, and it's a sigh, but maybe a satisfied one. "Well, seeing as my benefactor only bought me a one-way ticket, I'm stuck here until I can book a flight back anyway. So yeah. I can."  
  
"Do you want to?" is Neal's next question, because he knows better than to assume at this point.  
  
Andrew pushes his glasses up, considering it. Neal can't imagine why Andrew wouldn't want to, not after that kiss, which felt as good as any they'd had before. "My options  _are_  a little limited," Andrew says. "Am I going to have to worry about you jumping me in the middle of the night?"  
  
It's a joke, but the tone makes the tightness in Neal's chest relax a little, and the fact that Andrew's teasing him about sex almost makes him forget how they got here. "Probably," Neal replies, lips twitching in a bit of a smile. "But it won't be anything you won't like."  
  
Andrew smiles back, and it's actually a relief. "I suppose I can live with that."  
  
Neal's not sure if he actually had any plans to try and get Andrew to sleep with him, but what ends up happening in reality is they order takeout for dinner and sit around Neal's living room watching  _Top Gear_. It's not the most exiting date ever, but if Neal wants to put a label on it, he could say that it  _is_  a date. To be even more fair, it's actually their first date, considering everything before was random hookups and things far more somber.  
  
It's around eleven o'clock when Neal notices that Andrew's passed out on the couch, face pressed into the arm, glasses askew. It doesn't look comfortable at all, but Andrew is probably exhausted enough not to care, from the flight and the time zone change. It's one in the morning in Missouri.  
  
Neal's not a big enough jerk to leave him there, though. And, to be completely honest, he wants Andrew with him, in his bed. Even if there isn't any sex involved. Which is a strange sensation, something he hasn't actually  _wanted_ in a long time. It's part of how he knows he's in trouble here, because that's very indicative of real feelings. He's still too cynical - hell, too  _afraid_  - to attach a word to the way he feels, it's really only a matter of time before he's going to have to. And not just for Andrew's sake.  
  
He finishes his beer, lets Mr. Sixx out before putting him into his crate for the night, shuts off the TV and the kitchen light. He leaves the light for the stairwell on when he goes to kneel next to the couch, rubbing Andrew's bare upper arm. "Hey, Drew," he says, keeping his voice low, not wanting to startle him.  
  
"Hmm?" Andrew responds, peeling his eyelids open and then making a protesting noise as he tries to move his head. "Ow."  
  
"Yeah," Neal agrees, watching as Andrew sort of rolls half onto his back. "I was thinking you might not want to sleep on the couch all night."  
  
"Mmmf," Andrew groans, reaching up to straighten his glasses on his face, flinging that arm above his head when he finishes. It's kind of cute, almost like a little temper tantrum, cranky from being woken from his nap. "Probably not," he adds, voice slurred with sleep.  
  
"I'll give you two choices," Neal begins, standing up from his crouch. "You can sleep in one of the guest rooms, or you can sleep with me. Up to you, either way."  
  
Andrew blinks, and he's obviously not quite awake. "You have guest rooms?" he asks, after clearing his throat a couple times.  
  
"Yeah, two of them," Neal responds, and Andrew smirks.  
  
"Your ex-girlfriend make you do that?"  
  
"My mom," Neal answers, scowling.  
  
"Nice," Andrew replies, making a pained sound as he rolls up to a sitting position. "Are they pink and girly?"  
  
"Why, you hoping they'll remind you of your room at home?"  
  
Andrew gives Neal the finger. "You've seen my room."  
  
"To be honest, I wasn't really paying attention to the decor last time I was in there," Neal says, and Andrew lowers his head, swallowing, telling Neal he hit the mark he was aiming for. "So, what do you think?"  
  
Andrew seems to be memorizing the pattern the the fabric of Neal's couch cushions. "I'm really tired," he says, as if that's an answer.  
  
"You will get to sleep if you come to bed with me," Neal assures, following Andrew's train of thought. "Scout's honor."  
  
"Ha, like I believe that," Andrew replies, twisting to put his feet on the floor. Neal offers him a hand up and Andrew hesitates a moment before taking it. Neal doesn't miss the vacillation.  
  
But when Andrew is finally standing, he's really close to Neal, close enough that Neal can feel the heat of his body. He doesn't take a step back, his eyes locked on Neal's, captivating. "I'll sleep with you," he says, voice low, and Neal wishes to God he knew where they stood, if that look and tone of voice was asking for something or not.  
  
So Neal falters, swallows hard and has to move away instead. Because his hands are itching to grab Andrew, to put him back on that couch and fuck him until they're both sore. Or just take him upstairs, spend a few hours further messing up his sleep schedule, ruining Neal's expensive, Egyptian cotton sheets. He feels jittery, with anticipation and anxiety, and it used to be so easy because Andrew  _always_  wanted sex. Neal didn't have to guess.  
  
"Lead the way," Andrew breaks the lengthening silence, and Neal sidesteps, then turns away, silently cursing his indecisiveness as he leads the way up the wide staircase to the master bedroom.  
  
It's excessive, but Neal never had money before this, and he let himself indulge in all the stupid frivolities that he used to dream about when he lived in a crappy room in a tiny house in Tulsa. So, yeah, he has a huge, fuck-off bed and a giant bathroom and an LCD TV that takes up more than half a wall, but it's not like he cares about those things. Andrew seems impressed, at least, and that makes Neal a little glad he went for it, even if all he really wants right now is something he's not sure he's allowed to have anymore.  
  
On the way up, Andrew must have grabbed his backpack, because he sets it on the floor next to Neal's bed, fishing his toothbrush out. "Can I use your bathroom?" Andrew asks, and Neal hates this, because Andrew shouldn't feel like he has to ask.  
  
"Sure," Neal replies, and he waits until Andrew disappears to take his shirt off, tossing it into his overflowing laundry hamper.  
  
"Fucking hell," Andrew says, voice echoing from inside the bathroom. "I think this bathtub is bigger than my bed."  
  
It's not, Neal's more than sure, but Neal forces a laugh anyway. "Dave doesn't have a crazy rockstar bathroom in KC?"  
  
"Well, yeah, but it's not like I ever get to use it," Andrew replies, and then Neal hears water running, and the sound of Andrew brushing his teeth.  
  
It's kind of stupid, the things Neal keeps thinking about, like wondering if Andrew is telling the truth about using Dave's bathroom, his big, jetted jacuzzi. It seems like something Andrew should want to do, play around with all the fancy stuff while his brother's away on tour, have parties, invite girls over to share a bath with him. Not that Neal wants to think about Andrew sharing anything with anyone. No, what he really wants to think about is Andrew wanting  _Neal_  to come over to desecrate Dave's bathtub, fill it up and turn the bubbles on and fuck around until the water gets cold.  
  
He's still standing there in the middle of the room, half hard just from the faint images in his head when Andrew comes out, glasses off. "I'm done," Andrew says, thinking that Neal must have been waiting on him, and so Neal goes to brush his teeth too, not that he was necessarily planning to do so before that moment. When he's done, Andrew's folding his jeans, tossing them on the floor near his backpack, still wearing his t-shirt and boxers. "Which side?" he asks, and Neal isn't sure what Andrew means for a second.  
  
"Oh, uh, left," Neal says, because he's always slept on the right, not that it really matters. He watches Andrew peel back the duvet, folding it neatly over itself against the foot of the bed before loosening the sheets on his side, slipping under. It all feels way too benign, even more so than when they used to end up in the same bed back in the day. Not to mention this bed is about three times the size of that one, so there is a pretty big chance they won't even touch by accident during the night.  
  
But there's nothing Neal can do about any of that, not until Andrew gives him some kind of sign that he's forgiven him, that he trusts him. So he takes off his jeans, turns out the light, and gets in his side of the bed. He holds his breath, though he's not sure if it's because he wants to listen to Andrew's breathing, or if he's waiting for something. A couple of seconds later, Andrew shifts, turning on his side, and Neal turns his head, meeting Andrew's eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry," Andrew sighs. "I wish I could just get over it."  
  
Neal frowns. Of course Andrew is feeling guilty, even when it's not his fault. "Don't be sorry," Neal tells him. "I screwed up. You have every right to not trust me."  
  
"It's not even that," Andrew says. "It's... It's me."  
  
"Andrew," Neal starts, and he shifts onto his side as well, facing Andrew. "Whatever you're thinking, stop." And, okay, he's probably crossing the line, but he scooches closer, pushing his head forward so he can get his lips right up against Andrew's, brushing lightly. "Stop."  
  
He feels Andrew's breathing hitch, and his exhale becomes Neal's next breath. There's a kiss there, but it's so bare it's almost not one. Neal's fingers trace once lightly down the side of Andrew's face, and Andrew's lower lip moves, just enough that he can touch the little silver hoops in Neal's. "Go to sleep," Neal breathes, because he doesn't want to push this moment into something it shouldn't be, no matter how badly he wants to. He lingers two or three more seconds, just to feel Andrew's mouth close to his, Andrew's breath against his face, and then he draws away, watching until Andrew shuts his eyes before he closes his own.


	15. Chapter 15

Considering how early they went to bed, Neal's not all that surprised when he wakes up at a quarter to nine the next morning. What is a little shocking is that Andrew isn't in his bed anymore, and while Neal doesn't panic, he gets up immediately to find out of Andrew's still in the house, or if he's  _gone_  gone.  
  
Andrew is sitting on Neal's couch, watching a  _CSI_  marathon on Spike. But he doesn't look comfortable there, sitting on the edge of the cushions, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and a zippered hoodie. He's even wearing his shoes.  
  
"When'd you get up?" Neal asks, and Andrew's head snaps over to look at him.  
  
"Uh, couple hours ago," Andrew replies, voice rough from lack of use. "I'm still on Central Time."  
  
Neal nods, and he can feel how tense Andrew is, again. "You going somewhere?"  
  
"Not necessarily," is Andrew's response, and he turns his attention back to the television, where an autopsy is being performed on some mangled body.  
  
Neal comes all the way into the room, sits in one of his recliners, giving Andrew his space. He thought everything was okay last night, when Andrew crawled into bed with him, and yeah, nothing really happened, but it felt the beginning of a new start. "What's going on?" Neal asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.  
  
Andrew blinks, and he's still facing the screen, but he doesn't really look like he's watching it. "I'm not sure why I'm thinking about telling you this, because it's probably just going to fuck everything up. Again." He sighs, tipping his head down, staring at Neal's coffee table. "I guess I just want to be honest. It's probably a deal-breaker, but ignoring it would be stupid in the long run."  
  
"What, do you have herpes or something?" Neal asks, joking, trying to force that serious tone out of Andrew's voice. Instead, it earns him Andrew's somber eyes.  
  
"I think I'm in love with you," he says, and Neal's pretty sure he's never seen anyone look so sad, admitting something like that. It's definitely not even close to what Neal was expecting.  
  
The stupid thing, though, is how he's reacting. The initial feeling is like affirmation, like he already knew. And maybe he did, but either way, he doesn't mind it, and he's not experiencing the awkward sensation of not feeling the same way.  
  
"God, please say something," Andrew says, looking a little desperate. Neal didn't even realize he wasn't responding.  
  
"You think that being in love with me is a deal-breaker?" he replies, leveling Andrew with a gaze.  
  
"Um, probably?" Andrew says. "I mean, I guess I always figured it was about, like, I don't know, friends with benefits."  
  
Neal stares at him, thinks about those two days in Indiana where they were, for all intents and purposes, like a couple. "Isn't that what relationships  _are_?" Neal asks, and Andrew's eyes get big, like he wasn't expecting something quite so profound to come out of Neal's mouth.  
  
"Okay, wait a second," Andrew sort of flounders. "Did you just say  _relationship_? Because I might be going deaf. Or crazy. Or both, it could definitely be both."  
  
Neal smirks. "I don't think you're deaf. You might be crazy, I don't have the medical training to say for sure." He stops, looks at Andrew, because this next step isn't one he can take lightly, or change his mind about later. "I told you yesterday, I'm a fucking terrible boyfriend. I don't do sentimental shit, I don't remember birthdays. I'm insensitive and short tempered, and I suck at anything even remotely romantic." He stops, and Andrew's starting to look really confused, or ready to leave. "But," Neal adds, "If you don't care about all that, and I really can't believe I'm saying this, I could try to be yours."  
  
Andrew stares at him like he's grown an extra set of eyes or something, stunned into a lengthy silence. "I'm sorry," Andrew starts, shaking his head. "Could you repeat that? I think it sounded like you said you want to be my _boyfriend_."  
  
Neal shrugs, sitting back in his chair. "Friends with benefits," he says. "With the bonus of horrifying your brother. I don't see a downside."  
  
"Do you want a list?" Andrew asks, and Neal can't even tell what emotion Andrew's experiencing anymore. "I mean, right off the top of my head, I don't have breasts, I don't have a vagina, and I live in Missouri."  
  
"Contrary to popular belief, I don't need breasts to survive," Neal replies. "And I don't sleep around on tour anyway. Not that often, anyway."  
  
"Not that often," Andrew parrots back, "But sometimes. I don't want to get in the way of that. Or anything." He runs his hand through his hair. "I don't need you to make some kind of commitment to me, Neal. I just wanted you to know how I felt, I guess. So you could get out while you still can."  
  
"Does thickheadedness run in your family?" Neal asks. "Because you and your brother are both morons when it comes to this stuff."  
  
"We've had good role models," Andrew replies, and Neal realizes that he really shouldn't be shocked that someone whose parents have been married and divorced multiple times is skeptical about love.  
  
"Okay, then I'll be more direct with you," Neal says, and he gets up out of his chair, moving between Andrew and the TV to sit on his coffee table. "I know I keep saying this, but it doesn't seem to be sticking, so I'll say it again: I like you. I like being around you. I like fucking you. I like that a lot." He pauses, watches the little changes in Andrew's face as he speaks, conflicting reactions. "You know, maybe this won't last when I go back on tour and you go back to school, but I don't really care. Dave told me a while back that all he wanted was for me to be honest with you, and I think I can do that. Even if I fuck up. Or, hell,  _when_  I do."  
  
Andrew takes a breath, lets it out, takes another one. "Are you sure you want this?" he asks, looking almost a little sick.  
  
"Yeah," Neal confirms. "I do."  
  
The answer doesn't seem to assuage Andrew's distress. "Why?" he questions, and it's like the entire concept makes no sense to him, the idea that Neal would  _choose_  to be with him. Dave said Andrew has abandonment issues, and it makes sense, but Neal's never seen them in Andrew this strongly before. It's more than a little heartbreaking.  
  
"I don't know why," Neal answers, because he  _doesn't_. "I don't care why. It doesn't matter."  
  
"It matters to me," Andrew replies, strength returning to his voice.  
  
"I wish I could tell you, then," Neal says, sighing. "But I can't."  
  
Andrew frowns, looking down at the carpet between his knees. "I feel like I should apologize or something," Andrew finally says, and Neal lets out a breath of frustration.  
  
"Don't," he asserts. "Look, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I just wasn't ready for this to be over. I was starting to get used to it."  
  
Andrew looks up, meets Neal's eyes. "So was I."  
  
It's not acceptance, but it's close enough, and Neal feels like he needs to do something else now, something to cement the way it's starting to feel, so he reaches out and cups the back of Andrew's neck, pulling him forward. The kiss is tenuous, shallow, and Neal's careful not to rush it. But Andrew reacts to it, returning it, and it fills Neal's belly with warmth, rather than parts of him farther south. He curves his hands around Andrew's jaw, nudges the kiss deeper, loses himself in the feeling of sharing Andrew's breath, Andrew's hands bracing themselves on his thighs as they lean into each other across the space between the couch and the table. And then Neal makes the move, shifting forward so he can stand, knees bent so he doesn't have to stop kissing Andrew as he closes the distance between them. He pushes Andrew against the back of the sofa, one of his knees propped against the edge of the cushions, sort of looming over Andrew as he avoids sitting in Andrew's lap. Apparently Andrew doesn't appreciate it, or doesn't like the way it forces his head to be tipped so far back, because he grabs at Neal's hip, fingers bunching the elastic of his boxers as he tries to convince Neal to sit down.  
  
He won't do that, but he knows what Andrew's trying to accomplish, so he pulls out of the kiss, whispering against Andrew's temple. "Lay down."  
  
Andrew does as he's told, doesn't even hesitate, shifting to rest against the length of the couch, and Neal moves on top before Andrew's even settled, landing between Andrew's legs. Andrew's body feels warm underneath him, inviting, and he feels Andrew's hands find his shoulder blades, fingertips pressing against the naked skin, holding Neal down against him. He changes tactics this go around, finding Andrew's pulse-point with his mouth, kissing wetly, sucking lightly at the thin skin of Andrew's throat. He can feel Andrew's heartbeat starting to quicken, stuttering in rhythm, his fingernails biting just a little into Neal's back. It's going somewhere now, and as unplanned as it is, Neal's not going to complain. Andrew tips his head as Neal's nose bumps his chin, heat and hardness beginning to build at the connecting point between their pelvises, a little mewl of pleasure slipping past Andrew's lips.  
  
Andrew's phone rings. Neal can feel it against his hip, vibrating through the thick muscle of Andrew's thigh, and he can hear it, the song unfamiliar, but the band easy enough to identify as Our Lady Peace.  
  
"It's David," Andrew says, a little breathless, but with an edge that says he has an inclination to answer it.  
  
"Call him back," Neal replies, face still buried against Andrew's neck, demands, because he doesn't want to stop, not now.  
  
Andrew doesn't say anything, just lays there beneath Neal as his phone continues to ring, and Neal catches some of the actual lyrics,  _and everything is ruined, but the end is where we begin._  It's so tragically poignant, it makes his chest hurt. Andrew shifts, the weight of his hands on Neal's shoulders lightening, and he can feel the moment ending. Fuck if he's going to let that happen.  
  
"No," he says, moving to look Andrew in the eye. "Stop it, right now."  
  
Andrew swallows, shoulders pressing back, almost as if he's trying to move away. "This is a bad idea," he says, lowly.  
  
"No, it's not," Neal disagrees. "God dammit, Drew, I  _want_  you. How many different ways do you need me to say it?"  
  
"I don't know," Andrew repeats, sounding a little distraught. "How many ways  _can_  you say it?"  
  
"I'm running out of them, that's for fucking sure." Neal shifts, propping himself on his elbows. "You won't believe me when I tell you, or when I show you, I don't know what else to do here."  
  
"I don't know either," Andrew agrees, tone melancholy.  
  
"Do you want to go home?" Neal asks, even though he really doesn't want to give Andrew the opening.  
  
Andrew doesn't answer right away, eyes shifting off Neal's face, breathing slowly. "No," he finally admits.  
  
"Do you want me to stop?"  
  
Andrew's eyes flick back to Neal's, and there's a long moment where Neal can feel Andrew searching him, looking into him. "No."  
  
"Good," Neal says, releasing the tension in his arms and resting more heavily on Andrew again. "'Cause I don't want to."  
  
"I lied before," Andrew says, about a millisecond before Neal tries to kiss him again.  
  
"About what?"  
  
Andrew makes a face, and Neal has no idea what to expect. "I don't want to share," he replies, and the expression is suddenly very familiar. Dave makes it all the time, sort of a cringe, like he's expecting some kind of retribution. "You," Andrew adds. "I don't want to share you. With anyone else."  
  
Neal's speechless, not because of  _what_  Andrew said - if Andrew's really in love,  _of course_  he would want that, fidelity - but how he says it, like he's ashamed of wanting it.  
  
"I know, it's not your thing. I mean, why should it be? You can probably get anyone you want without-"  
  
"Would you shut the fuck up? Jesus Christ," Neal interrupts, because he can't take it anymore. "Were you listening before when I said I wanted to be your boyfriend? What the fuck do you think I meant by that? That I'd hold your hand when we went to the movies and then fuck whoever I come across the rest of the time?"  
  
"I don't know!" Andrew replies, exasperated. "What if you want to fuck everyone else?"  
  
"What if I just want to fuck  _you_? I've only been trying to for the last twenty minutes. Or, fuck, since you showed up on my doorstep yesterday." Neal exhales, because his blood pressure is rising, and not in a positive way. "Listen to me, because this is the last fucking time I'm going to say this to you. I want you. I want  _this_. You either believe me, or you don't. If you don't, we should stop. But if you do, please, shut the fuck up so I can  _show you_  that I mean it."  
  
Andrew blinks, mouth a little slack, and the seconds are adding up, and Neal can't deal with this, he just  _can't_. He's about to make Andrew's decision for him, when Andrew licks his lips and says, evenly, "This is me, shutting the fuck up."  
  
The relief is so acute that Neal actually has to close his eyes, and when he opens them again, Andrew's expression has shifted to something expectant. It makes Neal want to kiss him, and when he ducks his head to do it, Andrew meets him halfway, and  _there_  it is, the force that Neal remembers from before, the strength from Andrew's end. A couple of seconds go by, and they're already well past where they'd been when Dave called, Andrew's fingers twisted hard in Neal's hair, tangled tight enough that every movement tugs a few strands free, little sharp pains going off all over his scalp. And it feels amazing in a way that Neal can't explain, like Andrew's tearing him apart. He remembers the first time they did this, how they busted Andrew's lip in the process because they were so reckless. He wants to do that again, now, he wants to leave scars, because he doesn't want Andrew to forget, to ever think it's not for him.  
  
Andrew makes a rough sound below him, and Neal realizes he's grinding down so hard he's rubbing himself - and apparently Andrew -  _raw_. He pulls back, just enough that he can speak, his mouth hot and wet against Andrew's lips. "Upstairs," he growls, because either he's going to fuck Andrew  _right now_ , or he's going to die.  
  
Andrew nods, though it's barely a movement, and Neal heaves himself up, reaching down to grab Andrew's hands and pull him standing. He keeps Andrew in front of him, as if he's worried Andrew will change his mind and not follow Neal to his bedroom, pushes a palm against Andrew's lower back and keeps that contact the whole journey up the stairs. Once they're in the master bedroom, Neal turns him around, reaches up and takes Andrew's glasses off.  
  
As he does it, he remembers every other time, and it occurs to him that he's always the one that does it, that Andrew hasn't taken them off himself purposefully. "Do you want them on?" Neal asks, because maybe there's a reason he always seems to leave them on.  
  
"No," Andrew replies, and Neal takes a couple seconds to look at Andrew's eyes, to memorize what color they are _right now_ , in this instant, catching the early afternoon sun from Neal's bedroom windows. Then he folds down the ear pieces of Andrew's glasses, moving to set them on his dresser. It's almost a little reverent, but Neal wants it that way, to be very clear about his intentions, from this moment forward.  
  
When he rejoins Andrew in the middle of the room, he lifts his hands so he can push Andrew's sweatshirt off, tugging his tee off next, baring his chest. He touches the skin with his fingertips, dragging both hands down to Andrew's hips, pulling Andrew toward him. He tips his head down so he can lick into the hollow between Andrew's collarbones, filling the groove with his tongue, tasting the tang of Andrew's skin. And then he trails off right, along the arch of Andrew's clavicle, stopping when he reaches Andrew's shoulder. And there he pauses to suck, hard, because he's planning to leave bruises all over the place.  
  
Andrew makes a funny sound when Neal breaks off, so he goes back in, does it again, scraping his teeth over the spot before he draws back to survey the damage. The skin is an angry purple, red all around where Neal's mouth was in contact. A quick glance at Andrew's face proves it was received well, Andrew's pupils totally blown, mouth twisted in pleasure. It's fucking gorgeous, so Neal does it all over again, lower, in the middle of Andrew's pectoral muscle, his chin rubbing Andrew's nipple while he does it.  
  
"Neal," Andrew whines, like a plea, and Neal's ready to give Andrew anything - everything - he wants. He straightens up and finds Andrew's mouth, kissing him deeply, thoroughly as he reaches down to pull at Andrew's fly. He has to move back to get the zipper undone, hooks his thumbs in the denim so he can shove it down, goes with it to his knees. And then he has his thumb and forefinger wrapped around Andrew's dick, holding it level so he can suck Andrew into his mouth.  
  
He hasn't done this, not to Andrew, not to fucking anybody, but it doesn't matter because he wants to do it now. He's gotten enough head in his life to know the sort of shit he needs to be aware of, to watch his teeth and keep a good enough grip on Andrew that he doesn't get choked accidentally. He pulls off, licks his lips, and goes back in again, lapping at the crown of Andrew's cock for a minute before he slides the width of it back into his mouth. The pressure of it feels intoxicating against his tongue, against his snake-bite piercings, and  _fuck_ , he'd never really thought about what they might do for oral on a guy. He'll have to remember to ask Andrew about that later, because right now he's concentrating too hard on remembering to breathe and trying to move along the length of Andrew's erection.  
  
He's not doing a great job, despite being determined to make it at least kind of good. He's having a hard time coordinating his breathing, and he's sort of drooling down his chin, and it's probably the most disgusting looking thing ever. Not to mention that he can't seem to get anything even remotely resembling a rhythm going, and he's been a little careless about his teeth once or twice. But Andrew somehow doesn't seem to mind any of this, because he's got a rough handful of the hair on the back of Neal's head and he's making these gaspy panting sounds, his legs trembling. It seems to renew Neal's desire to make this work, so he shifts his hand so he's got more of Andrew's shaft in his fist, giving him less to deal with otherwise, and this makes things way easier. He can actually sort of bob his head now, and he relaxes, using his tongue more, sucking at the cap of Andrew's dick.  
  
Neal's really starting to feel like he's getting the hang of it when Andrew's hand sort of jerks in his hair, and he says, "Neal, stop."  
  
Neal does as he's told, sliding back to sit on his heels, but he doesn't let go of Andrew's cock, just sort of freezes there, holding it. "I fucked that up," Neal admits as he wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand, because yeah, he doesn't really know what he's doing.  
  
"No, you didn't," Andrew tells him, and he's a little breathless. "It was fine. I was just about to fall over," he adds, and Neal can see the hint of a smile on Andrew's mouth.  
  
"Oh, shit," Neal replies, and he realizes that Andrew's pants are still around his ankles, tangled up with his shoes. Neal releases his grip on Andrew's dick, standing up so Andrew can lean on him as he says, "Get your clothes off." Andrew obliges, grabs ahold of Neal's shoulder and toes out of his shoes, working his jeans and boxers off, and Neal indulges the urge to pull Andrew's naked body against his. All that's separating them now is Neal's underwear, and that almost makes it better, Andrew's damp cock leaving a little wet spot on the cotton. Andrew's skin feels over-hot and Neal buries his face in the crook between Andrew's neck and shoulder as he pushes his palms down Andrew's bare back, gripping his ass and hauling him impossibly closer.  
  
"Fuck," Andrew intones at the same instant Neal murmurs "I want you," into Andrew's neck, and he separates himself from Andrew long enough that he can move Andrew to the bed and push him down on it, into the mussed place where Neal woke up alone not all that long ago. They're at a point now where neither of them really want to screw around anymore, so Neal doesn't waste any time getting the show on the road, pulling off his boxers. He slicks up his fingers and presses two of them into Andrew, working Andrew open, trying to save time by opening the condom simultaneously. Andrew pulls it from Neal's hand a second after he's torn it open, takes over that part because there's no way in hell Neal would be able to get it on one-handed anyway.  
  
It also makes it so there's no delay between Neal pulling his fingers free and replacing them with his cock, and the low keening sound Andrew makes when Neal penetrates him like that is totally worth the extra effort upfront. Neal shifts back, pushes in again, and fuck, it's been long enough ago that they did this that he's forgotten how incredible and hot Andrew feels around him. Andrew's got his knees bent, legs pulled back against his body, and Neal puts his palms against the backs of Andrew's thighs, holding them down as he starts to thrust.  
  
It's when Andrew reaches up to brace himself against the wall at the head of Neal's bed that he realizes that this is the first time they've done this sober, actually had  _sex_. And there are a lot of things he didn't remember that are coming back to him from the last time they did it, like the way Andrew tips his head to the left, presses his face against the mattress under him and shuts his eyes tight, the sounds of his moans subdued like he's worried about being too loud. Neal vows that, one of these days, he's going to make Andrew break that little habit.  
  
Right now, though, he's got to focus, because everything feels so fucking good, and he's not going to ruin this by coming in less than ninety seconds. He tries to concentrate on his breathing, the rhythm, because he's good with that, staying on the beat. It's easier said than done however, the sounds Andrew is making distracting him, as well as the look on Andrew's face, complete, unapologetic bliss. So he closes his eyes, quickens his pace, shortens his strokes, until each one is deep and hard and designed entirely for Andrew's benefit.  
  
It just works out that it feels pretty fucking awesome for Neal, too.  
  
And then Andrew's vocalizations evolve, from broken exhalations to the kind of moans that signal orgasm. When Neal opens his eyes he finds Andrew staring at him, fist wrapped around his dick, pumping, and Neal can feel the way the pressure is starting to change around him. Andrew's close, dangerously, and Neal's not sure why, but he doesn't want it to end this way, Andrew getting himself off. He reaches down, gets a grip on Andrew's forearm and wrenches his hand away, pressing it down to Andrew's side. "Don't come," Neal tells him, voice rasping. "Don't. I want to do it."  
  
Andrew shudders, closes his eyes. "Neal, God," he breathes, forcing his eyes back open. "You better fucking hurry up," he gasps, turning his hand over to catch a fistful of Neal's sheets, holding tight.  
  
It's not going to be difficult to do what Andrew wants, because Neal's been holding off for long enough already, and Andrew's asshole is all tensed up, tight and hot. All Neal has to do is relax the rigid muscles in his belly, look down at Andrew's face, Andrew's eyes, see the pleasure there. His eyelids flutter, and he forces himself to focus, to keep his eyes from rolling back as he takes two or three more deep thrusts and lets go with a long, low moan.  
  
He's still shaking, his dick still twitching in aftershock when he pulls out, pushing one of Andrew's legs flat on the bed so he can shift to the side. He catches Andrew's leaking cock in his palm, closing it in his fist and jerking over it with purpose. Andrew's body tries to arch into the touch, but he's effectively pinned, and it translates into all of Andrew's muscles straining against Neal's weight.  
  
"Come on," Neal tells him, voice rough, and he's knows he doesn't need to do this, that Andrew's practically there already, but he can't help himself. "Fuck, Drew, I want your come. I want to smell it, I want to fucking  _taste_  it, come  _on_." And Andrew does, comes hard with a broken shout, fingernails digging into Neal's shoulder. And, fuck, it just keeps coming out of him, like he's been storing it up, white lines of semen crisscrossed over his heaving chest, some splattered all the way to the base of his throat.  
  
That's where Neal starts with his mouth, licking jizz off Andrew's larynx, moving down his sternum as Andrew pants underneath him, chest rising and falling against Neal's face. He strays off center, finding the crimson mark he'd left earlier, licking with a heavy press of his tongue. Andrew makes a low humming sound in response, and for some reason, it kicks something up in the back of Neal's mind. Even before he really considers it, he's lifting his head. "Sing something for me."  
  
Andrew's eyes open, irises darker than usual, expression caught between euphoria and confusion. "Huh?"  
  
"Sing," Neal repeats, because he might as well go with it now.  
  
"Now?" Andrew asks, his tone a little amused.  
  
"Yeah," Neal replies, feeling suddenly stupid about the whole thing. "Or later, whatever."  
  
Andrew blinks at Neal, like he's processing, trying to figure out what it's about. Finally, he breaks the silence by asking, "What do you want me to sing?"  
  
"Whatever you want," Neal answers, and he honestly can't believe Andrew seems willing to do this without being talked into it, still a mess from his orgasm.  
  
Andrew takes a deep breath, turning his gaze up toward the ceiling. There's enough of a hesitation that Neal thinks maybe Andrew's not going to do it after all, but then Andrew inhales again, and sings very softly, "Slow down..." His voice is a little ragged at first, and he stops, clearing his throat, starting again. "Slow down, lie down, remember it's just you and me." Neal's not sure if he recognizes the song or not, but it seems a little familiar, a little sad. "Don't sell out, bow out, remember how this used to be," Andrew goes on, closing his eyes, and Neal watches Andrew's mouth work around the words. Andrew's voice is cleaner now, the tremolos at the end of the phrases sounding beautiful, prefect. It reminds Neal of a conversation he had with Dave once, back when the whole Idol thing was still going on, that Dave had always thought Andrew had the better voice, the sharper tone. It was always just an issue of confidence.  
  
Maybe it's because Andrew just got off, or maybe it's that he actually feels comfortable with Neal, despite everything, but right now, what Dave said is really easy to believe. "I just want you closer," Andrew continues, "Is that all right? Baby, let's just get closer tonight." There's a tiny pause here, probably built into the song, and Andrew draws a lingering breath. The next part, it's the chorus, Neal's done enough song writing to know that, and Andrew's voice gains a little strength as he goes through it. "Grant my last request and just let me hold you. Don't shrug your shoulders, lay down beside me. Sure I can accept that we're going nowhere, but one last time let's go there. Lay down beside me."  
  
Neal had wondered, when the song started, if Andrew had chosen it for a specific reason, or if it was just the first thing that came to his head. After the last part, Neal has a feeling it was the former.  _We're going nowhere_ , and maybe that's how Andrew feels, or how he thinks Neal views it. Either way, it strikes a dissonant chord inside Neal, makes the moment just a little bitter.  
  
Andrew doesn't go on, opens his eyes to find Neal's, searching for his reaction. "That okay?" he asks, and the confidence that was just there in force seems to be evaporating instantly.  
  
"Yeah," Neal replies, wants to tell Andrew how good it sounded, but he's too caught up in the meaning of the words. "Why'd you pick that song?" he asks, even though he's a little afraid of the answer, because he can't make himself ignore it.  
  
Andrew colors a little. "It was my audition song," he admits, and that would be why Neal almost recognized it, because Dave had told him once what song Andrew had performed for the judges at American Idol before they passed on him. "Though it didn't really work that well for me back then, so I don't know why I decided to sing it _now_."  
  
It's a weird moment, because it's like Andrew is expecting something to come out of this, like Neal was testing him. "This wasn't an audition," Neal tells him, even though, on some level, it almost  _was_.  
  
"Good," Andrew replies, a smile coming out across his face, and Neal feels the weight that settled in his chest lifting. "Otherwise I might be worried."  
  
"You would have made it," Neal tells him, honestly, and Andrew's expression softens into something almost gratified. "You fucking nailed it."


	16. Chapter 16

Neal wakes up because the sun outside the window is blinding him, and why the fuck didn't he close the blinds before he went to bed? He pries his eyes open and is momentarily confused when the orientation of the bed and the window don't match what's in his head. Traveling and sleeping in different places all the time can really fuck a person up. Drinking before going to sleep doesn't usually help, either.  
  
But then there's a sensation of déjà vu, because he's done this before, woken up in this bed.  
  
Andrew's bed.  
  
Except this time there's no reason for Andrew to not still be here, and yet Neal's alone. He sits up, grabs his phone off the nightstand, but there are no messages, nothing giving him a clue where Andrew might have gone.  
  
He pushes to his feet and searches the floor for his jeans, finding them in a tangled pile near the end of the bed, his boxers wrapped up in them. He pulls them on, grabs the first t-shirt he finds - it's a little tight, so it must be Andrew's - and heads downstairs.  
  
The weird feeling that he's done this all before continues when he finds Dave sitting at the table, empty bowl in front of him, newspaper in hand. "Since when do you read the paper?" Neal asks by way of greeting, and Dave lowers  _The Star_  so they can see each other.  
  
"Andrew gets it," Dave replies, folding the paper and setting it aside. "You want coffee?"  
  
"You make it?" Neal asks, heading toward the coffeemaker anyway.  
  
"Maybe," Dave replies, propping his chin on the palm of his hand. "You're just going to have to take your chances."  
  
The coffee tastes strong enough to take the paint off the wall, so it's definitely Dave's. Neal finds the sugar and adds three heaping teaspoons to his mug before he joins Dave at the table. "Where's your brother?"  
  
"I thought he was still in bed," Dave replies, fiddling with the spoon in his empty cereal bowl.  
  
"He's not," Neal states, taking a large sip of his beverage. "Not his bed, at least."  
  
Dave gives Neal a look, like he's still not quite used the idea that Neal and Andrew are  _a couple_. "Then I have no idea," he says. "Did you check the music room? He's always on the computer in there."  
  
"No. I haven't really gone looking for him yet."  
  
"I suppose we can wait to send out the search party in that case," Dave replies. It's literally not ten seconds later that the external door alarm goes off, and they can hear someone coming in through the garage door.  
  
"Drew?" Dave calls out, and there's the sound of keys being dropped onto a table top.  
  
"Yeah," Andrew shouts back, and a couple seconds later he comes into the kitchen with a box of Krispy Kreme donuts and a large coffee. "There, I made breakfast," he announces as he deposits the box into the center of the table.  
  
"I knew there was a reason I let you live here," Dave says, opening the box before Andrew can even sit down.  
  
"I do what I can to contribute," Andrew offers, reaching into the box to get a donut of his own. "Besides, I had to find drinkable coffee."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with my coffee," Dave complains around a mouthful of pastry.  
  
"Yeah, it's great if you're attempting to develop peptic ulcers," Neal says, earning him a victorious laugh from Andrew and a rude gesture from Dave.  
  
"Remember who pays the mortgage here," Dave warns both of them before shoving the last third of his donut into his mouth.  
  
"I think he's threatening us," Neal says, sharing a look with Andrew.  
  
"What do you mean 'us'?" Andrew replies, joking. "You still have a place to live if he kicks you out."  
  
"Not in Kansas City I don't."  
  
"Maybe you should watch what you say, then," Dave is telling them when his phone starts ringing, vibrating on the table. "Be back in a minute," he says, grabbing his phone and leaving the room. Neal can vaguely hear Dave answer the phone, and then a door shut.  
  
"Archie," Andrew says, licking his thumb.  
  
"How can you tell?" Neal asks, not bothering to hide the way he's staring as Andrew's tongue works over the pad of his index finger next.  
  
"You didn't see the stupid look on his face?" Andrew asks. "He always looks that way when his significant other calls him."  
  
Neal blinks, because he  _does_  know that look, and also the tone of voice Dave affects. It has always driven him crazy, made him kind of sick to his stomach, irritated and jealous. This time, somehow, he didn't notice. At all.  
  
Neal's a little dumbfounded by the realization that he doesn't  _care_ , and he's not answering Andrew, so he finally says, "He told you about him and Archie?"  
  
Andrew gives Neal a knowing look. "Neal, he's my brother. I figured it out. Like, a year ago."  
  
"Huh," Neal responds. "It doesn't bother you?"  
  
Andrew shrugs. "It did a bit at first, I guess. Because Archie's younger than I am. It's a little... Rock the Cradle of Love to me. But hey, who am I to judge? I'm happy if David's happy."  
  
The sentiment isn't surprising, because Dave has pretty much said the same thing to Neal in regards to Andrew. The thing that catches Neal a bit off guard is that he honestly feels the same way, and not in a begrudging sort of manner.  
  
"I don't see why he left the room," Andrew's saying, taking a drink of his coffee. "It's not like we don't know what's going on."  
  
"Maybe they're having phone sex," Neal guesses, offhand, kind of grinning to himself because imagining Archuleta attempting dirty talk  _at all_  is beyond hilarious.  
  
"Gah!" Andrew reacts, setting his coffee cup down loudly. "Thank you so much for putting that image into my head."  
  
Neal can't contain a real smile at that, the kind he normally manages to keep subdued. It's almost like he can't help himself. "I do what I can."  
  
"I think you should be required to make me think about something else," Andrew replies, his eyes fixed on Neal's. "Considering."  
  
"You think so, huh?" Neal pushes his chair back away from the table a little, the legs scraping loudly against the tiled floor. "Come here," he tells Andrew, and Andrew's lips twitch into an almost smile as he stands up, takes the single step to bring him to Neal's side.  
  
"Yes?" Andrew asks, as if Neal summoned him for a favor.  
  
Neal doesn't answer, just reaches out to grab Andrew's hand, tugging until Andrew gets the hint and bends down, meeting Neal as he tips his head for a kiss. It starts out light, shallow, until Andrew draws back long enough to lick his lips, and they come back together for something deeper, wetter. From there it heats up a little, and Neal pulls Andrew into his lap, Andrew's legs straddling his thighs. Neal pushes his tongue against Andrew's, curls to lick at the backs of Andrew's front teeth, savors the sweetness of maple frosting and the bitter tang of coffee, the lingering underlying flavor of Andrew that makes Neal hot on the inside. Andrew threads his fingers into Neal's hair as he tries to shift even farther forward, the chair beneath them making a protesting groan that Neal echos as he grips at Andrew's hips.  
  
"Oh God, guys, come on," Dave's voice breaks into the moment, and Neal hears Andrew make a little whine of frustration as withdraws from the kiss, extricating himself from Neal's lap.  
  
"How's  _your_  boyfriend?" Andrew asks his older brother as he returns to his original seat, and Neal watches as Dave studiously keeps his eyes off Andrew's kiss swollen lips.  
  
"Archie's fine," Dave replies, moving his gaze over to Neal, and Neal's almost sure he can see a flicker of jealousy there, in Dave's eyes.  
  
Andrew must have detected something in his sibling's tone as well, because he asks, "Hey, do the Royals play today?" Which is notable mostly because Andrew doesn't really like baseball, and never voluntarily watches it on television.  
  
"Not until tonight," Dave answers.  
  
"So how about I let you school me on MLB 2K9," Andrew suggests, grabbing a donut and his coffee, standing and edging toward the living room.  
  
Dave holds Neal's eyes for a moment longer before he gets up himself, grabbing the half empty box of donuts. "Why the hell not?"  
  
Neal ends up following them into the other room, lounges in a recliner as he watches the two of them play video games. The inside jokes are there, as usual, the banter, insults going back and forth, and, for the first time in years, Neal doesn't feel like he's on the outside of it. He's a part of this, he  _belongs_  here, like he never has anywhere else. He was born in Texas, grew up in Oklahoma, owns a house in California, but being here, in Kansas City, Missouri, with these two people, this...  
  
This is home.


End file.
